


Subroutine

by Knightqueen



Series: Subroutine Universe [1]
Category: Tron - All Media Types, Tron 2.0, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Brothers, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Rating: PG13
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 80,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knightqueen/pseuds/Knightqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jet Bradley lived in a world of computers, his entire life was built around them. But the idea of electronic beings living within them was one he never comprehended, not even when he finds himself smack in the middle of it. An AU of 2.0/LEGACY Canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One: Puzzle Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** _Tron/Tron: Legacy_ and all things related are property of Steven Lisberger, Bonnie MacBird and Walt Disney Studios (and some other guys I'm probably forgetting but can't care to remember).
> 
>  **Author's Note:** This AU combines elements from _TRON 2.0, TRON: Betrayal, TRON: The Ghost in the Machine,_ and _TRON: Legacy_. So depending on my execution, this isn't going to be a "paint-by-numbers-insert-character-here" story in which a new character simply follows the primary ones through the same scenarios and end result, it will be different (and mostly influenced by _"2.0"_ and _"Machine"_ ). Whatever I didn't like about _Legacy_ or _Betrayal_ will ultimately be left to the wayside or reconfigured into something to serve the purposes of this AU storyline.
> 
> * * *

**(1989: Thursday):**

By time the night came there was only one thing little Jethro Bradley was painfully certain of: He hated bedtime. He really, really hated bedtime. Especially when he was in the middle of trying to complete a 1,000-piece puzzle. It wasn't even half-way completed, not according the reference photo on the box.

All he had was a big brown spot, which he assumed was the ground below the hot air balloon. "Jet," His father, Alan, strolled out of the darkness of their hallway, looking tired and worn out from work. Jet glanced up from the cardboard pieces scattered across the carpet at his father, expression set firm in defiance. "Bedtime, buddy," He said. Jet considered his options, what few he had, realizing he would either appeal to his father's mercy successfully or grab hold of something and refuse to be moved. Adjusting his glasses, Jet sat up so that he was sitting on his legs. "Can't I stay up a little longer, please?" Jet asked. "I'm almost finished."

Alan glanced at the puzzle pieces on the floor verses the corner piece his son completed, he was far from completing the entire thing. It was his duty as a father not to laugh, however; Jet was a terribly sensitive kid, quick to anger and slow to forgive. "Afraid not," Alan stepped further into the living room, mindful of the puzzle pieces on the ground as he attempted to step over them. "You can finish this tomorrow, maybe Sam could help you," He suggested, kneeling down to his level. Jet huffed in objection. "I don't want Sam's help. I can do this by myself."

"Oh, I know," Alan assured. "It was just a suggestion."

"Well, I don't need any suggestions," He paused, brow creasing with contemplation. "Are you sure I can't stay up a little longer?" Alan grinned at the flux in his son's mood, he nodded his fervently as picked the pieces off the floor. "Yeah, I'm sure," Was his reply. "Growing boy like you needs his rest and your mother would have my hide if I didn't put you to bed."

Jet shrugged. "Well, that's fine by me, as long I don't get intro trouble."

This time there was no stopping the chuckle from escaping, Alan reached over and gave his son a playful shove. "Oh, believe me, buster, you'd be in trouble. Your mom doesn't play favorites when it comes to punishment." He surveyed the carpet with a sigh. "Give me a hand with these, will ya?"

"Yes-huh, she does," Jet argued. "One time, I told her you let me eat ice cream after eight and she didn't punish me at all." There was a strange hum from his father as he readjusted his own glasses. "Is that right?"

"Yup," He replied. "When can we stay here?"

"When she can get a day off, I guess," Alan sighed.

A moment of silence passed between them before the conversation resumed. "How come we can't live like Sam?" Jet said.

"How do you mean sport?" Alan stopped fiddling with the puzzle pieces to regard his son; in any other situation he would've grinned at the serious expression his face, but he knew where this was coming from. His son was getting tired of living in two places at different times. "I mean, it's not like I don't like visiting, but, I wanna- you know-" Jet shrugged. "Live like Sam does; I wanna, I guess, have one house?"

"And that's a perfectly reasonable want, Jet," Alan assured his son. "But, you know if I we could, we'd all live under one roof. As it stands, we can't right now, because-"

There was a look on Jet's face that clearly indicated he wasn't coping with the answer he was given. In fact, he was sure he wouldn't have believed such a statement had it come from Lora Bradley herself. Why did parents make things more complicated than actually had to be? It was all so simple: mom needed to move back to LA and then they could all live together. "-her job is very important, kiddo."

"More important than us?" Jet interjected. Alan looked a little taken aback by the question, so much in fact that his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. His expression became very serious; Jet ducked his head a little when his father's hand came down on his shoulder, commanding his attention. "Now you listen to me, Jet. Nothing is more important to your mom than her family. It's why she took the job in the first place. As soon as she gets the chance, she _will_ come visit, all right? Huh?" Jet maintained a small frown as his father attempted to assuage his worries. He couldn't promise she would stay home when she came, it would be unfair to both his son and his wife, but he could try to make some peace in the fact that he wasn't alone in hoping she did.

"Yeah, sure," Jet mumbled.

"Alright, now, let's get this puzzle back in its box so you can get to bed," Alan said. As much as he objected to the idea, Jet obliged to his father's request and helped the old man clean up his mess. The carpet was the picture of department store quality once they were finished, Alan set the box on the coffee table. He turned to face Jet, whose expression was not a happy one. Regardless, Alan maintained his position. "Let's get you to be-" His sentence trailed off at the sound of furious knocking on the door.

Almost immediately, Jet was off and running for the door, a big no-no and punishable by parent-law. Alan didn't bother calling out to him, instead he used the length of his legs to his advantage and made a hasty exit from the living room. He overpowered his son's eager little legs in no time at all, blocking his path the door. "Bedtime," He repeated for the umpteenth time.

"But-"

"Jet, if you do not get up those stairs right this second, consider yourself grounded for all eternity!" His father proclaimed.

"You can't do that, that's not fair!" Jet protested. There was no verbal response from Alan, just the simple swinging motion of his arm and a look that could most certainly kill. "I'm telling mom when she gets back!" Jet hollered, hurrying up the stairs. Alan huffed dismissively at his son's feeble proclamation, knowing Lora wouldn't do a thing to him when she heard about this.

 _Kids_ , he mused, opening the door. _Was I that bad when_ \- Alan grunted in surprise when the door bumped his shoulder and Kevin came marching into the foyer like a man on a mission. Oh, God, it was a too late for Kevin's shenanigans, what did he want at eight o'clock in the evening? Kevin looked about the room, confused as to where Alan might have gone when a simple look over his shoulder revealed his friend's position. "There'd better be a good reason for your being here, Flynn," He complained. "I just got Jet to go to bed-"

"No you didn't!" Jet bellowed from his bedroom. "I'm still up! I'm not asleep!" There was brief pause followed by footfalls approaching the doorway. "Hi, Uncle Kevin!" All that could bee seen of Alan's eight-year-old son was the arm sticking out of the doorway, waving up and down in greeting.

"Hey, little man!" Flynn greeted with equal enthusiasm. "Go to bed."

"Okay!" Jet retreated into his bedroom and wasn't heard from again. Alan stood in silent shock at the compliance of his son, pretending not to notice the wholly amused expression on his partner's face. _God, preserve me, that kid is going to kill me._ "Is there something you need, Flynn?"

Flynn grinned like a man riding a high, curls bouncing as he nodded head. "You better believe it, man," The ECO of ENCOM chuckled. "How've been, Al? Feels like ages since I've seen you."

"Flynn, you saw me yesterday," Alan deadpanned. "If that counts for ages, then-" He shook his head. "What do you want?"

Flynn motioned with his finger for Alan to follow him. Alan did so reluctantly, knowing if Kevin went any further into the house there would be no getting him out by conventional means. Then there was Jet to consider; he knew the boy would be back down just so he could visit his "uncle" Kevin and stay out of bed (knowing Flynn wouldn't support his authority). Kevin flopped down onto the couch, a goofy smile playing on his lips. Alan remained upright, choosing to look authorative as he folded his arms across his chest and stared him down over his glasses. "Okay, so you know about my little side project?"

"Your "digital frontier" or "grid"?" Alan responded. "Yeah, I know _of_ it. Why?"

Kevin snapped his fingers. "I've cracked it, man! Blew a hole right in the center of the puzzle, like you wouldn't believe."

There was a split second where Alan found himself wondering if he should get excited or not, it certainly felt like he should with the way Kevin was acting, but he hardly had any details to generate the same level of enthusiasm his friend was exuding. "How so?" He said.

"I don't know exactly, but it's incredible," Kevin gushed. "Isomorphic algorithms, their nothing like what the scientists would have you believe they are!"

"Now, wait a minute, Flynn, what-"

"Everything and I mean, _everything_ , we thought to be true has been turned on its head with this discovery. And quantum teleportation? I've got the answer to that problem at the tips of my fingers," Kevin raised his hand so his palm was facing Alan.

"Flynn, you just said a whole lot of nothing," Alan groaned. "So you discovered the answer to quantum teleportation and isomorphic algorithms?" He shrugged. "Where's the proof? And why are you being so vague?"

"Well, that, my friend, is for me to know and you to find out. You still have Lora's baby pager?" He asked, reclining against the cushions of the couch. Alan scoffed. Did he still have it? Of course he still had it, the confounded machine never left his side after that little incident at the supermarket. "Yeah," He turned his hip, revealing the compact messenger clipped to the waist of his jeans.

"Good, keep that with you at all times," Kevin rose from the couch with a sigh. "Sleep with it, if you have to."

"What the hell for?" Alan felt the words escape him before he had a chance to rethink them. Jet was sure to have heard that and Lora _would_ have his hide if she found her son throwing around profanities he wasn't supposed to know. Kevin grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It's surprise, man," Kevin chuckled. "You'll know as soon as I'm ready to show you." Oh, well that was helpful, Alan thought dryly.

The two men headed out of the living room and back down the hall, the awkward silence that hung between them lingered until Flynn had his hand on the doorknob. He gave his friend that secretive, Cheshire cat smile of his. "I can't wait until you see it, Alan. You're gonna love this place."

Alan patted the man on the shoulder as he ushered him through the doorway. "Sure, I will, hotshot," He stated. "Get outta here and go home to that son of yours." As the door closed, Alan barely caught the dumbstruck look of realization on Flynn's face. Kevin was down the stairs of the art deco residence and on his bike quicker than a fox over a hill. That man had to get his priorities straightened out one day. He couldn't leave Sam like he used to and there was only so much your parents were willing to do before that open door closed in your face. "Jet, didn't I tell you to go to bed?" Alan turned to face his son. Jet sat crouched on the stairs, dressed in his pajamas and holding a little action figure. The Yori action figure, he noted with a resigned sigh. "Can't sleep?"

Jet shook his head.

"Alright, let's go watch some TV," Alan yawned, heading down the hall toward the living room. Jet was quick to follow; he stepped under the path of his father's arm and was rewarded with a hand on top of his head. Lora used to do it all the time when he was a baby. She would sit up with their little boy until he teetered off into sleep, knowing it never came easy for him.

Alan continued to practice the method, only instead of lullabies or stories, he used the television. Father and son flipped through the channels for a good half hour before finally settling on _Scooby Doo Where are You!_ Alan managed to maintain a state of awareness long enough to watch his son doze off into dreamland, and wasn't before long that he joined him.

* * *

**(Friday):**

The morning arrived in what felt like moments to Alan. He opened his eyes, greeted by the glow of the morning shining through the curtains of the living room windows. Shifting slightly, the programmer took a moment to survey his surroundings, tongue rolling lazily around in his dry mouth as the events that transpired last night reemerged in his head. A twinge in his lower back let him know it was hurting, the same could be said of his neck.

Slowly, he raised his right arm to rub his neck, his left arm was still pinned under Jet. The boy lay with his back against his arm, arms crossed with one leg propped up on the couch while the other dangled over the couch, foot planted firmly on the floor. The boy had a talent for winding up in the weirdest positions in his sleep. Alan's eyes finally found their way over to the clock hanging above the television, taking note that the box was still on and tuned in the cartoon station. The time was exactly 7:40am. Oh, man, he was late for work and Jet would be late for school if he didn't wake him up.

Pulling his arm out from behind his son, Alan gave him a firm shake. "Time to get up, kiddo. You're gonna be late for school," He said. There was a whine from the half-sleep boy as he sat up. "Can't I just go to Flynn's?"

"Not until after school," Alan yawned. "God, I'm beat."

"Does that mean we can stay home?" Jet hoped, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Not a chance." Alan yawned again. He nudged his son good-naturedly, ignoring the irritated look it got him. "Get going." Jet climbed off the couch, mumbling nonsensically as he continued to rub his eyes. As strange as it was, school didn't bother him as much as he liked to act it did, he just hated the hours and hours of sitting around. He was eight, he should know better than to act like a five year old who needed to be Velcro'ed to his seat, but there times he wanted to run around just to peeve his teachers off, all whilst blowing off antsy steam.

Climbing the stairs, Jet made his way down the hall toward the bathroom. In a manner that inspired no haste, Jet went through the motions of grooming himself, making sure all of the vital parts of his body smelled moderately nice before throwing on some clothes he wasn't quite sure he wore already. School materials stuffed in his backpack, Jet trudged down the stairs, perking up a little at the smell of burnt toast and melted margarine.

* * *

"Okay, you've got your stuff?" Jethro watched with bewilderment as his father tended to his kitchen mess with a suitcase in hand and a piece of toast in his mouth. They slept past their regulated waking hour and now Dad was running late for work for the second time that week.

"Yes, dad, everything's in my backpack," Jet mumbled in resignation. Alan didn't seem to hear him, he was slipping and sliding from one counter to the other, putting dirty dishes into the dishwasher and putting food back where it belonged. "You've got lunch?"

"Yep, that's in my backpack too," Jet deadpanned. "Dad, can I go now? Sam said he was gonna meet me at the bus stop and I don't wanna be late." Alan stopped in mid-step to regard his son, damn if he didn't look like his mother when she got annoyed with him.

Setting the jar of peanut butter back on the counter, Alan removed the toast from his mouth and smiled. "Yeah, sure," He said. "Watch yourself out there. Don't stray too far out into the roads, alright?" Jet nodded in complete understanding as he hurried toward the back door. "Have a good day at work!" He hollered over his shoulder.

If he had stayed long enough in the house, he might've heard his father chuckle "yeah, right." As it stood, Jet was in far too much of a rush to get away from the house (he didn't wanna be late for school). His bike lay haphazardly on the ground, a couple feet away from the garage across the way. Picking the bike up off the ground, hurried down the driveway until there was enough momentum to get him going. He glided down the vacant street, admiring the familiar sights of his neighborhood, throwing the occasional wave to someone he knew or one of the kids dashing for the bus stop.

When his momentum slowed, he began to pedal with haste, enjoying the speed generated by his legs. He directed himself up onto the curb once he reached the busy intersection at the end of his block. Turning the corner, he laid eyes on the bus stop. There, waiting on the other side of the bench, was Sam Flynn. Sam was only a year younger than he was, yet, he was surprisingly mature for his age. He didn't whine or complain whenever Jet beat him at game of Monopoly or checkers, he just retaliated with good old fashion violence and a rematch that usually had Jet wondering if he cheated to win.

Jet's parents worried over the fact that he never befriended anyone on their block besides Mr. Stetson, but Jet was comfortable with only two friends as his confidants. It made for less work and there weren't a ton of names to memorize. Jet reached the bus stop as the yellow vehicle was approaching, Sam flashed him a wicked grin. "Hey, Jet, wanna race the bus?" Sam greeted.

"Hey, Sam, why not?" Jet replied. "Follow me," Sam pushed away from the bench as he turned his bike toward the next intersection, he was pedaling across the street before Jet even got his own wheels turning. He followed Sam's lead down the sidewalk, the drone of the bus driving him to move faster. They would have a good head start on the bus while it was waiting to pick kids up. He rode up so that he was practically riding alongside Sam on the narrow pathway. "So, your dad came over to my house last night," He began as if they had been in the middle of a conversation.

"Yeah, I know, I saw him leave and come back," Sam shrugged his shoulders. "He said something about wanting to talk to Alan." Alan was always just "Alan" to Sam, never his uncle. He saw Alan more as a friend than anyone tied to him by blood and part of Jet was a little irked by this. Flynn was Jet's godfather at the request of his mother, he always treated him like part of the family, like an "uncle", because he wasn't so sure what a godfather did exactly (no had explained that to him yet). "What did they talk about?" Sam asked.

Jet shook his head. "Beats the heck outta me," He replied. "Uncle Flynn was going on about quantum leaps or algo-rhythmic something or others. I really wasn't paying attention."

"Yeah, dad never tells me anything when I ask him about work. He just uses that "maybe someday I'll tell you all about it" line on me all the time," Sam grumbled, mocking his father's gruff voice.

"Man, I hate it when they do that. It's not we don't already know what their talking about, we just need a little clarification," Jet huffed. Sam nodded in agreement. "Do you have PE today?"

Jet shook his head. "Nah, I've got dance today. Ms. Marlowe is showing us how do the Charleston." A forlorn look crossed Sam's features while Jet looked beside himself with frustration. "You're lucky, man. Coach Vickerman is definitely gonna have us jumping over the vaulting horse today."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather be jumping over a stupid box than trying to do a two-step. That's girl stuff," Jet complained.

"My dad taught me how to do a two-step for my birthday last year, so it's not girly," Sam rebuked. "Your dad dances too doesn't he?"

Jet grinned. "No, my dad's got two left feet," He said. "Mom always danced though."

"Is she still in Washington?" Sam asked, knowing he was treading into touchy territory. Jethro nodded slowly.

"Yup."

"Huh," Sam decided to say no more on the matter. They arrived at school five minutes ahead of the bus, Sam hobbled off his bike, tripping on his shoelaces as he swung his leg from over from the other side. He had been in such a rush to get the bus stop in Jet's neighborhood that he never bothered to tie his shoes and a pack a lunch (which probably sat on the counter if his dad hadn't already eaten it). Jet coasted to a smooth stop in front of the bike rack, he climbed from off the bike, pulling the chain out from the opening in his backpack as he did so. "Where are you eating for lunch?"

"The school cafeteria, I don't feel like eating outside today," Sam replied as he bent down to tie his shoe. Jet surveyed the schoolyard as students fanned out from all directions, unloading from the bus or their parents cars. The feeling of withdrawal hit him, he really didn't want to be here today, he wanted to be playing games at Flynn's. "I'll see you inside," He mumbled, hoisting his backpack higher up on his arm. Sam grunted by way of response, distracted by his present duty.

* * *

**(TBA)**


	2. Two: Source Code

**(April 1989: TRON City, End of Line Club):**

* * *

" _Rough day today?"_

" _I don't want to talk about it."_

Zuse's club was unusually lively at this time of day; Tron and Yori were cut off at least three times before they could finally get onto the lift. They stood behind a small crowd of Basics and ISO's, watching the structures fall out of sight and continue on above them like never-ending code.

Out of respect for his privacy, she never said anything, but he could tell she knew something was bothering him, she always did. The speed of the lift dropped gradually until it came to complete stop, the doors opened revealing the illuminated interior of the club. Basic and ISO alike poured out into the spacious area, never sparing anyone beside them a glance.

Yori followed Tron out, arm wrapped around his, eyes wandering the expanse of the club with wariness. ISO's that wore the identifying symbols on their arms out in the open, seemingly without shame or fear of confrontation, stood off on one side of the bar and the Basics did the same, maintaining their distance from the ISO's and whispering heatedly amongst each other. They all looked ready to derez each other if someone so much as made a move in their direction.

It was one of the reasons for Tron's self-imposed silence, he hated what was happening between the programs and it was only made worse by Clu's paranoia toward the isomorphs. For every error, glitch or catastrophe that occurred, they were always to blame for the problem. It was never just a system malfunction anymore, ISO's were the cause of everything.

Tron's attempts placate his comrade's growing aggression toward, not just the ISO's, but how to handle their general problems, fell on deaf ears. Shaddox was no help as he maintained neutral opinion on everything, opting to "let the creator handle it" as opposed to expressing any real opinion.

Yori maintained the diplomatic view on their crisis. If she wasn't busy with System Utility or watching over Ma3a and the ISO's, she was always trying to appeal to both parties problems with the other, knowing there would be no need for their conflict to escalate any further if there was a simpler solution to the crisis. He commended her for her actions, but he was beginning to loose any hope that Clu or the Basics intended to see any other path but their own.

Somewhere in the club, Zuse was holding the attention of several programs, you could tell by the lively music the mp3 programs were playing; Zuse never did anything without the proper audio file to alter the mood of his fellow audience. Tron hoped to get a moment with him, but for the time being, a visit to Shaddox would have to do. The system architect stood behind the bar, for whatever reason the program liked to moonlight as a bartender to his fellow conscripts, the "why" eluded Tron.

But then, Shaddox had never been good at elaboration for his actions. He greeted the man with a nod and a wane smile, Shaddox repeated the motion without the smile, his eyes shifted over to Yori and brightened a little. "Hey you two," He greeted. "Yori, you're looking lovely, as usual."

"Thank you, Shaddox," Yori replied, ignoring the roll of Tron's eyes. "How are things here?" Shaddox shrugged his shoulders, he couldn't complain about the state of things within the club; time stood still inside the lively atmosphere, programs surrendered to their desires and left their problems to the wayside. It was what lay on the outside that he could complain about but never would. "Everything's fine here, Yori. What about your end? Ma3a and ISO's faring well?"

Yori gave a modest shrug. "Things could be better, I suppose. The Gridbugs aren't much of a problem anymore, but we're still having problems with some of the tower's infrastructures."

"How so?"

"Well, Ma3a says someone's been tampering with the Arjia City's mainframe. I went down to check myself and there's definitely signs of attempted code rewrites, the source of the infrastructure weakness, but there's no source code to follow or trace back," Yori's expression became a troubled one as she tapped the bottle of libation with her finger. "It takes hours to restore the fractured data to its original state. It's enough to make me wish I could contact my User."

"I wish I could contact my User as well," Tron sighed. "Alan-One would know exactly what to do in a situation like this."

"You can't always expect to depend on the _Users_ , my dears," Zuse slinked up from behind the three programs with a flourish. He stood between Yori and Tron, leaning against the bar in such a relaxed manner that Tron began to wonder how much of their conversation he'd heard. "I hear rumors that their becoming quite the negligent creatures these days." He tapped his cane against Yori's leg, admiring the circuitry of her light suit.

"That's not true," Tron nearly snapped. "If Flynn is absent then it's for a reason."

"Perhaps, or maybe he simply got bored and returned to his original function. Whatever that was," Zuse pursed his lips as his eyes switched over to the security program, and his momentary frown was replaced with an easy smile. "Oh, relax, Tron, I was only kidding."

"No you weren't, and that's what worries me," Tron stated.

Yori winced. Tron was never good at beating around the subroutine; every answer or question from her counterpart was blunt and to the point, but never with the intention to cause harm. It was just the way he processed things, unfortunately. An uneasy silence fell between the four programs, Zuse and Tron squared off in a staring contest. The twitch below Zuse's eyebrow indicated his nervousness, Tron maintained a stony expression, his circuits gave off a low and almost threatening hum. Finally, the flamboyant program gave the Tron a pat on the shoulder and slipped away, tucking his cane under his arm in one simple swing. Tron watched him go, frown deepening.

"Hey," He felt Yori's hand gently cup his cheek, he turned away from Zuse's retreating figure and focused on her. Yori smiled, running her thumb across his cheek as he nuzzled her palm. "Don't worry about what he thinks, Tron. You and I know both know Flynn hasn't abandoned us. Right, Shaddox?"

Shaddox looked a little uncertain, but nodded all the same. "The creator hasn't abandoned us, Tron. Be sure of that." Oh, Tron had no doubt Flynn hadn't abandoned the Grid and it's occupants, it was just of question of time. How much time could Flynn devote to their world if he was so preoccupied in the "real" world? Flynn explained adequately enough the difference of time between their worlds. What might seem like days to him would end up being years or months for them. Would he remain long enough to talk sense into both warring factions and fix the communicative damage brought on by Clu's unyielding belief that the ISO's were harmful to the system? He could only wonder.

Suddenly, Yori sat upright, a surprised look on her face, her hand dropped away from his cheek as she moved away from the counter. "I've gotta go." Tron, a little taken aback by her sudden withdraw, caught her by the hand. "Hey, what for? We just got here," Tron said. Yori turned, an apologetic expression crossed her features as she placed a hand over his. "I know, but I just remembered I have a meeting with Clu-"

A meeting with Clu? Tron felt his throat tighten and his circuitry dim. "A meeting with- what for?"

"He wanted to speak to me about the ISO's," She replied. There was a no real way he could object to her going to meet Clu without causing some sort of concern. She knew well enough what he'd been doing in the games and wholly objected to the derezzing of programs because they lost a game. However, Tron failed to tell her his suspicions about Clu being responsible for the bombing attempts on the very city she was assigned to protect.

Telling her now may stop her from going, but on the other hand, it may actually convince her she needed to speak him. Either way, Yori wouldn't not go because he told her so. She was too independent for that kind of thinking. "Yori, I think you should postpone your meeting with Clu, just until tomorrow," Tron said.

Her brow crinkled. "What for?"

"I- I don't think it's safe for you to be alone with him," There he admitted it, halfway there at least. The perplexed expression remained on Yori's face, she shook her head, unsure of what he was getting at. "I don't understand, why would you think that?" Yori inquired.

"Because he-"

"I'll admit, Clu's a little misguided in his approach to things," She interjected, "that's really Flynn's error, but dangerous, Tron?" She shook her head.

"Yes, dangerous," Tron affirmed. "Yori, I have reason to believe that he might be behind the attacks against the ISO's, even the ones that are made to look like the ISO's doing." He raised a hand when she tried to interrupt, sending a wary glance across the room. She and Shaddox followed his line of sight somewhere in the corner they spotted two of the Black Guard, presently engaged in "conversation" with two female programs.

"Do you have any evidence to support this?" Shaddox inquired in a low voice, leaning forward on the counter. Yori joined Tron back against the counter, curious to know as well. Tron toyed with the empty glass in front of him, fingers tracing the rim in hopes to elicit the strange ringing sound he knew Flynn could achieve without trying. "You could say I found a bomb," Tron murmured. "The Guard have been planting them all over the ISO outposts and I can't believe they'd act without Clu's say so."

"Well, maybe there's a glitch in their scripts," Yori suggested feebly. At Tron's dubious look she could only shrug. "It's possible, Tron."

"Possible, but highly unlikely, Yori," He said and Shaddox nodded in agreement. "I need concrete evidence, but I don't want you going anywhere near him. Not now."

"But if I don't show up, he'll suspect something," Yori said. "Then make something up. Use the I/O node, tell him you can't meet him because something's come up with Ma3a and Radia," Tron suggested hastily. "Just don't go anywhere near him, please." An uncomfortable silence fell between the two lovers as Yori studied Tron's hard expression.

Flynn's new system had changed them in ways she never really bothered to take notice of until now. Everything moved with a different sort of speed than it did on their original sever. Where chaos and order seemed to work in harmony in their old home, they clashed repeatedly in Flynn's system, unable to come to any sort of agreement.

Programs were left in question to their fate because their system administrators and protectors were at odds with one another; the ISO's lived in a state of fear because no one understood their reason for existence and wanted them gone. Two of her closest friends no longer worked in harmony, Clu was becoming increasingly inflexible, and Tron was becoming frustrated with what little he or Flynn could do to stop him. She was caught between wanting to do all her she could to maintain the peace between them and acknowledging the truth.

The truth that maybe Clu was just too far-gone to stop, let alone save.

"Yori?" All three programs jumped in surprise, Yori turned as Tron peered over her shoulder at the source of the unusually chipper voice. Clu stood just a few feet away from the bar, arms behind his back, lips graced with an icy smile. Clu regarded the alarm on their faces with curiosity before allowing his eyes to wander down toward the intertwined fingers of Tron and Yori.

Yori turned so that her back was facing Tron, in an odd way it almost seemed like she was trying to protect him. "Clu, I wasn't expecting to see you here," She said.

"Well, I figured you'd probably forget our meeting, what with all that's been going on lately," Clu sighed. He extended a hand to her in open invitation, smile growing wider. "You coming?" Behind her, she felt Tron's hand tighten around her wrist, a silent plead to stay where she was. She couldn't, however. Not with Clu standing right in front her. Using her free hand, she tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled back at him. "Of course," Yori answered in a pleasant tone. She placed her hand in his, the strange almost green glow his circuits clashed with her white circuitry. She felt Tron's grip on her wrist loosen considerably as Clu pulled her gently forward; his fingers dragged across her palm down to her fingers. Be safe, he was telling her.

She would certainly do her best. Clu allowed her move ahead of him, he admired her figure for a moment before turning to regard Tron and Shaddox. "Gentlemen, I'll see you later." And with that, he followed Yori to the elevator. Tron felt his jaw lock in frustration, he loathed the idea of Yori being alone with Clu; She could defend herself, yes, Tron made absolutely sure that Yori wasn't left without some sort of defense against attacks since being brought over to this system, but Clu was a particularly ruthless fighter in the arena. When it came down to it, Yori would hesitate to attack him because of her nature. It was one of the reasons she never participated in the games. She could never harm anyone, not even for sport and Clu would take advantage of this.

"What do you plan on doing now?" Shaddox inquired.

"Look for evidence," Tron answered. "Clu's behind all of this, I'm sure of it."

"That might be true, but remember that Clu _is_ the grid. Without him, the system would fall apart,"

"Shaddox, the system is fall apart _with_ him. I won't allow him to go unchecked and forsake the ISO's because he's the administrator. That's not how I was programmed."

* * *

The ride down to central observation tower one was a short one, Yori had little problem keeping up with Clu at the speed he was moving at, though she found herself apologizing to several denizens she almost ran over in the process of tailing him. Clu was off his lightcycle before it came to a complete stop, he waved her over to the lift as he stepped inside. Yori waited until her baton returned to its natural state before following him inside.

The ride up was unusually quiet, Clu seemed content with watching the buildings fall below him, his eyes only occasionally shifted to meet hers. Standing with his arms behind his back, he turned slightly to the left. "So, how have you been, Yori?" He asked.

"I'm functioning well, thank you," Yori replied. "A little low on energy, but I've been alright so far."

"Hmm," Clu rocked back on his heels, tilting his head from side to side. "Good, good. What about Tron?"

"Tron?"

"Yes, Tron," Clu repeated. "I've noticed he seems to be under a lot of duress lately. I think he still might be upset about my decision to derez loosing programs in the games."

"Well, it's not the brightest idea in the world, Clu," She said. Clu shot her a sideways glance, his expression became withdrawn and cold. "Oh, stop acting as if I haven't told you this," Yori huffed, folding her arms across her chest. "You and I both know no one deserves to be derezzed because they loose at a game. Why not ban them, Clu?"

"Because banning players doesn't solve the problem, Yori," Clu answered. "It'll simply persist if you don't do something about it and I'm doing something about it. Order is being maintained."

"Without losers, you would have no winners," Yori pointed out. "Loosing isn't the kind of problem you think it is. It's not imperfection, it's a learning process. You learn from those mistakes and maybe even become a winner the next time. It's a balance, Clu. You can't have one without the other."

"Is that right?" Clu chuckled, leaning to the side. He bumped her shoulder in a playful gesture. "You always know what to say, don't you, Yori?" He said. "I don't agree, but I'll take it into consideration regardless."

"Thank you, Clu," Yori sighed.

"Where would Tron and I be without you?"

Flattery, Yori realized, was something Clu loved to adorn her with. There wasn't a moment he wasn't complimenting her on something and there were times where she found it amusing. Now, it was a little awkward, as she knew it was his misinformed way of apologizing to her. "Floundering at the bottom of sea of simulation, most likely," She replied with a smile. "Now, about the ISO's?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Clu raised a finger to his nose and tapped it. Something he'd seen Flynn do, maybe it meant something, maybe it didn't. He just knew it made Yori giggle one time. The doors to the lift opened, they stepped out into the balcony. The view of the city was beautiful. The luminescence of the buildings gave the never-ending black sky something to play against.

If she looked far enough ahead, she could still see parts of the grid being built into the city, driving the outlands further and further out of view. Yori relaxed a little, the memory of watching the I/O towers reactivate after the MCP was destroyed played back in her mind. She suddenly wished that Flynn had gotten around to throwing stars up in their sky.

Thunder and lightning from the electrical storms only provided so much to look at before they became apart of the background. She joined Clu at the balcony, mimicking his posture when he leaned against the railing. "I've been meaning to ask your opinion on our situation," Clu started, hesitation rolling down his shoulders as he rotated them. "Do you think the ISO are capable of these attacks?"

"Anyone's capable of attacking the system, Clu," She answered. "Both Basic and ISO."

"That's not what I asked you, though," Clu smiled calmly.

"No, I don't think their behind these attacks, Clu," Yori replied. "What would they have to gain by destroying their own homes, their own people?"

"Asylum from accusation, of course. No one would think twice about pointing a servo at them if they played the victim of their own destructive devices. I think its part of the reason why the Gridbugs are so attracted to their sector. Their unpredictable programs, their very presence may be the reason for the destruction of the operating system."

When he turned to focus his attention Yori, it was all she could to keep her fists clenched at her sides. How could he say that about the ISOs? It made no logical sense whatsoever. Clu noticed how stern her expression had become, the flicker of her circuits indicated the underlying anger she was keeping at bay, and the tremble of her arms led his gaze down to her clenched hands.

Poor little program, he thought. She believed that the ISOs were the saviors of their system, when it simply wasn't the case. Sighing, he placed a hand upon her shoulder. "Yori, don't see? They're threat to the system as they multiply more rapidly than basic programs," He said. "Soon they'll outnumber and replace us and what's to stop them from destroying _that_ balance between us?"

"Common decently for your fellow programs," She declared, pulling away from his touch. Clu looked truly surprised by her actions, he looked down at the empty space that encompassed his fingers then back at her. "Yori, do you really believe that ISOs are any less prideful than your average program? Give them an inch and they are sure to walk all over the Basics, decency be crashed. Flynn refuses to see them as they truly are, not a gift, but a curse."

"Who do you calculate you are, Clu?"

"The system administrator," He replied, wondering how she'd forgotten his function.

"The ISO have done nothing wrong, they aren't threatening the system in any way," She proclaimed.

"Then how do you explain the complications we've been experiencing? Sectors are crashing without explanation, programs are disappearing or loosing their functions altogether without explanation, by the day. Flynn's continued absence makes it impossible to bring these errors to his attention because he's too preoccupied with his "real world", and the only programs unaffected by this are the ISOs and you dare say they're innocent?"

"Yes, yes, they are innocent! I have been with them since these programs since Ma3a brought them into existence, Clu. None of them, absolutely none of them, have wished ill against the Basics," Yori declared. "This system is only few cycles old, if you'd been around as long as Tron and I have, you'd know problems are just apart of building and development. It will pass eventually."

"Eventually isn't soon enough, Yori. The problem must be dealt with now or we will all perish," Clu approached her slowly, arms extended before him. Yori watched him warily, fingers pressed against her palm as her arm fell behind her. He placed his hands upon her shoulders, his expression suddenly compassionate. "You're a special program, Yori, better than all others, better than Tron, but your feelings toward the ISO's makes you blind to their true nature."

"That's not true," She rebuked, pulling away from him.

Clu shook his head in disappointment. He stepped away from her, kindness gone from his placid expression. His eyes hardened and became lifeless. "I have matters to attend to, you can see yourself out, can't you?" He turned away from her, clasping his hand behind his back.

Yori stared at the green color of his circuits in dismay. Ever since Flynn had returned from his long absence, Yori noticed the default white and blue circuitry functions were becoming spectrumed again; yellow, red, orange and green were returning to the forefront of the programs, and she could only suspect it was a direct result of the dissention going on within the system.

There was no longer a unilateral agreement among the people. Everyone's opinions were becoming more and more varied on the subject of the system and the ISO's fate. The spectrums were only highlighting that individuality. Without saying a word, Yori proceeded back to the lift, disheartened and truly frightened by what had transpired between them.

_Activating security Rez-in station_

The authoritative voice startled both programs to attention, Clu turned away from the wall he was facing, Yori halted in her approach to the lift. Two guards were rezzed in on either side of the lift, staffs engaged and ready for battle. Yori felt a chill run up her spine as they marched forward, she turned to regard Clu. He looked a little confused by what was transpiring, but not by much. They stopped, only a few feet away from her. "Sir, there's been an incident,"

"What kind of incident, program?"

"A rouge faction of the Guard is said to be at the sea of simulation. We have reason to believe they're the ones behind the terrorists attacks," The first guard spoke. Yori and Clu's gazes met briefly before Clu focused his attention back on the guards. "And why is this?"

"The informant tells us their planting what look like bombs around and into the sea," The second guard stated. "It's happening now."

That was all that needed to be said. Clu stepped away from the balcony and headed for the lift. "You two men follow me, we're gong to deal with this problem right now," He said.

"Clu, wait!" Yori started after the three, braid bouncing against her back as she raced to catch up. Clu raised a hand to halt the closing double doors. "Yori, you stay in the city, tell Ma3a what you know about this," He paused, the ghost of regret etched into features. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"Don't worry about earlier, Clu," She said in way that implied all was not forgiven. "Just stop those guards, alright?" She stepped inside, the two guards made room for her by stepping further into the back. Clu smiled at her as the doors closed and the lift began to descend, Yori maintained a placid expression, eyes focused on city towers.

* * *

Part of Tron didn't want to believe what he was seeing on the screen, that this was some illusionary scenario playing out in his mind. However, it wasn't, the truth was as clear to him on the screen as the disc on his back. Despite all their efforts, all of Flynn's efforts, Clu was not going to see reason. He planned on doing away with the ISO's no matter the cost, even it meant infecting the entire Seneca with an "Isomorphic Virus", who's code was exact same pattern seen in the Abraxas infection that took place not six cycles ago, to do it.

Abraxas had been an ISO named Jalen once; He had been Ma3a's right hand, completely apt in dealing with the uneasy situations between their kind and the Basics. A virus that mutated within the system without their knowledge had infected him shortly after participating in one of the games.

However, at the time, no one knew how the event occurred; it nearly wiped out the developing sectors and ISO colonies in both the city and the outskirts of the outlands. Were not for Flynn and the short-lived security program, Anon, they might not have had a chance to eradicate the infection completely. Throughout the entire situation, Clu had been so eager to blame it on the ISO's (based solely on their lack of directive), despite Flynn's assurances that they weren't the cause. Now Tron knew why. The null unit had planned all of this, the infection, the attacks on the colonies and the central city itself, everything.

If he didn't hurry, Clu would succeed in framing his own Guard for his wrongdoings and removing himself from the equation of accusation. Closing the window of Clu's database, Tron hurried out of control tower II. _I have to warn Flynn._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Authors Note:** Yes, I'm aware "Seneca" is the name of the Roman Philosopher who was forced to kill himself under the implication that he was involved in someone's murder (Nero, I think his name was), but I seem to recall Kevin referring to the Sea of Simulation as "The Seneca" near the end of _TRON: Betrayal_. If not, (shrugs). It's got a nice ring to it for the SOS.


	3. Three: 1990s Theme

**(December 21ST** **, 1989):**

Jet expected many things from his life. He expected he and his mother would be able to move back home forever, not continue to to live between LA and Washington for the extended period of eight years. His father contended that the years he spent with her in Washington made all the difference in the world verses the sporadic time he spent in his company. Jet disagreed. He expected to become the boss of Flynn's Arcade at eight, to use a calculator instead of an abacus and to never go to school after spring break.

Reality, however, made it a point to upset every single one of his expectations. And barely two weeks into his ninth year, Jet equated his life was a living hell right now. Saturday was supposed to have been the perfect day Sam and himself; just the two of them alone in their imaginary world. However, what occurred left him in shock. Instead of another round of _The Adventures of Clu and Tron_ , his father enters into his room to tell them Uncle Flynn has disappeared. There wasn't a trace of him anywhere; not in his arcade, not at home, not even Mrs. Flynn's grave. He was gone.

The news, understandably, shocked Sam. He ran out of their house and rode all the back down to his, where Mr. and Mrs. Flynn senior were waiting for him. It wasn't unlike his uncle to vanish for days at a time, so he wasn't particularly concerned. He remembered being on his own for extended periods of time with Sam whenever Kevin was supposed to be watching them, so he knew, Flynn would pop up whenever he was finished working, everyone just needed to calm down.

As days dissolved into weeks, Jet found it hard to believe Flynn was still working after all this time, and so did most of the world. His best friend was suddenly embroiled in a media event that had everyone had school talking. "Kevin Flynn's disappeared! Did you hear Sam's dad disappeared? I heard he ditched him!" Wherever he went, it's all Jet heard. Flynn, Flynn, Flynn, Flynn. To make matters worse, Sam was absent from school for the duration of a whole month. Even when Jet made it a point to visit his house, Sam wouldn't speak to him. He was just too upset about the fact that his dad was gone.

Alan was busier than ever at ENCOM; He either never seemed to catch a break from the "board" or simply wanted to be there all the time. He came home and to bed went immediately afterward. Jet's home life consisted of sporadic appearances by Alan, bothering Mr. Stetson and his frumpy lady friend (who reminded him too much of his English teacher), eating leftovers, doing his homework and going to and coming back from school.

Flynn's absence threw everything off balance, the world didn't seem to able to function without him. He felt hatred swell in his chest every time he turned the television on. All anyone ever talked about was the disappearance of Kevin Flynn. He missed him too, but he always expected his father would be there to assure him that everything would be all right. He was only there some of the times, but even Jet could tell his thoughts were elsewhere, with the whereabouts of his friend.

If Alan wasn't busy or sleeping, he was pretending to be interested in what was going on in his life, what little that remained of it. Too stubborn for his own good, Jet either ignored him or made overdramatic statements that never aptly described the hurt he was really feeling, which always resulted in a fight between the two. Alan didn't appreciate the backtalk, Jet didn't appreciate what he thought was a charade.

No stern talking to was going to work this time; Jethro was mad at his father and mad at the Flynn's for becoming the center of everyone's universe. No one seemed to get this, not even when they said, "I understand how hard this is for you, but…" He suddenly wished he were back in Washington with his mother; at least she would pay him some attention.

"Hey, sweetheart, it's me. How've things been? Is Jet alright? I just called to see… well, you know why I called. I'm worried about you, Alan. You've been burning the candle at both ends trying to take care of Sam, Jethro, and ENCOM, and look for Kevin. It been months, I think you need to take a step back. This is Flynn we're talking about here, when he wants to be found, he'll be found." Extended pause, followed by a sigh. "Please, pick up. Alan?"

Jet listened to the sound of his mother's voice fill the living room, the message was at least three days old, his father avoided answering the phone altogether now because of his job. "All day long, all they do is call me," Jet remembered him mumbling. He almost never checked the messages (which were now at a total of seven, mom's included). So far, all of their callers consisted of ENCOM and Lora. Jet had picked up the 2 times his mom had called, however, he reframed from complaining, he only asked if he could come back to live with her until this whole thing blew over.

Lora's response was always: "I'll talk it over with your father" or "maybe when school's over". The answers were evasive, yet he found himself unable to be angry with his mother, not when his father was failing at the simple task of calling her back so she could make good on her "promise" to talk it over with him. Climbing off the couch, Jet glanced over at the clock, it was exactly five o'clock in the evening.

His father should be walking through that door at any second with a placating smile and a friendly greeting. Jet would be ready to ignore it all in the solitude of his bedroom. He did not intend to stay in the living room so he could repeat the same cycle they had been stuck in for the last eight months.

Grabbing his trading cards from off the coffee table, Jet made a beeline toward the stairs. Unfortunately for him, that's when his father decided to make his appearance. The chill of the icy air danced around their ankles as Alan entered the house, shaking the snow from off his trench coat with exaggerated movement. Jet stood in his place, he watched as the snow trickled off his father's coat and evaporated into tiny puddles on the floor. When Alan finally looked up from brushing his arms off, he offered his son a wane smile. "Evening, son," He said.

"You're home early," Jet decided to say.

"I'm always home at five."

"How's Sam?"

Alan shrugged his shoulders. "I wouldn't know. I haven't been down to see him yet. Are you hungry?"

"No, I ate the leftover pizza and fries," At his father's disappointed expression, Jet gestured to the kitchen. "There's still some pizza in the oven if you are, though." Alan looked as though he were contemplating on the offer then shook his head just as quickly. "Thanks, but I think I'll pass." Jet shrugged his shoulders, fine by him. There would be more pizza for him come to tomorrow if he remembered to take the remaining slices out of the oven before he went to bed. He started up the stairs, he felt the tips of his father's fingers brush his bare arm and whatever energy he had reserved left him immediately. He turned slightly to regard him, Alan did the rest, turning around so that he was facing him again.

"What do you wanna do for New Year's Eve?" He asked. What did he want to do? There were a million ways to answer that question. "Mom called." Genius move, Jet. Absolutely brilliant. Deflect the attention of your father away from you onto another subject, where do you get your ideas? "Really?" Alan's eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise, he looked toward the phone sitting on the coffee table then back at his son. "When?"

"Three days ago," Jet replied over his father's balk. "She wants you to call her back." With his father thoroughly distracted and dashing for the phone, Jet hurried up the stairs to his room. If he was lucky, his father would forget all about asking him about what to do for New Year's Eve.

As he entered the familiar opening bars of Journey's _"Don't Stop Believing"_ began to waft around the room, conflicting with his present mood. His father hated this song - hated Journey period -, especially when he played it with the volume up to the max. Jet didn't feel like listening to this song, not right now, but if the noise filled the empty silence of his head, then why not? Shutting and locking his bedroom door, he strolled across his bedroom floor toward his radio.

" _-A singer in a smoking room,_

_the smell of wine and cheap perfume_

_For a smile they can share the night,_

_it goes on and on and on and on-"_

Perfect timing, he thought with a smile. The chorus vibrated through the inadequate speakers, the radio rattled on the dresser with every high note, making him feel just a tiny bit better about his situation. Retreating from the radio, Jet made himself comfortable at the end of his bed, his fingers twiddled aimlessly as he searched his bookshelf for something to read.

Most of the books on the bottom shelf had been read from back to cover, the second shelf housed discarded library books he never got around to reading due to a lack of interest and the top shelf was home to such literary classics like _20,000 Leagues under the Sea, 2001: A Space Odyssey_ and _The Hobbit_. Not exactly light reading, not exactly a task he wanted to undertake without really dedicating himself to it.

His eyes wandered over to his window, he could see the snow flying in a diagonal path past the glass. He contemplated going out and going to see Sam, but he knew wouldn't get as far as two miles on bike. Lying back on his bed, he started to close his eyes when there was a knock at the door.

* * *

Three days ago, Lora had called three days ago and he didn't know it! This is what he got for attempting to avoid ENCOM when he wasn't at work. Settling down on the couch, Alan listened to her message at least three times before he picked up the phone. He didn't bother calling her apartment, she would still be working until 2:00am at the very least and wouldn't answer her phone until she got a good "night's" rest.

Her message troubled him like nothing else. He didn't think he was doing so horribly with handling things on his side. Jet was upset with him for not being home as often as he used to be, but it couldn't be helped with the way things were going over at ENCOM. It was a constant power struggle between him and the board; they were upset over the fact that the man behind the power of their empire had literally disappeared, and after stepping away from his position as ECO to look after his son.

For the last four years, Alan had run ENCOM with minor assistance from Flynn, who retreated into the world of fatherhood and his arcade games, placating to the board and making sure whatever they had on schedule, remained on schedule. He knew the board was just waiting for Flynn to become organized and return and that they were humoring him in his temporary position as ECO. However, he never saw that fact become so utterly clear until his friend was gone.

Roadblock after roadblock, for the past eight months, the board had become more of a hindrance than an actual help when it came how the business should be run without Flynn. Alan argued it was far too soon to even be thinking like that, to assume that Flynn up and ditched them without a care was foolish. "Flynn's going to come back, guys," He told him. "There's no need to panic."

They didn't listen of course and since then, Alan's relationship with the penny pinchers had been tenuous at best (perhaps worse). He had done his best to look at both Jet and Sam, but it seemed that his "best" just wasn't enough anymore.

The phone line rang a total of four times before someone picked up. _"HJF, how my I help you?"_

"Uh, yes, I need to speak to Lora Bradley, please?" He sighed, rubbing his temples.

" _Lora Brad- you mean Lora Baines?"_

 _Banes?_ He thought, bewildered. When had she started using her maiden name? "Uh, yes, She's my wife," He replied. "I'm Alan Bradley."

" _Okay, hold on. Let me see if I can't get her on the line,"_ The receptionist put him on hold, Alan sighed dejectedly at the sound of the elevator music playing on the other side. A few moments later there was a muffled click followed by intelligible conversation. _"Hello? Mr. Bradley?"_ It was the receptionist again, where was Lora?

Alan sat upright. "Yes, I'm still here."

" _Miss Baines isn't here,"_

"She isn't? Then where-" His sentence trailed off at the sound of the door unlocking and swinging open. The receptionist's voice rattled something in his ear, but he didn't hear it. He rose from the couch in apprehension, eyes searching for something that could double as a weapon. The door closed, he could hear keys jingle as the lock slid back into place, the receptionist was still speaking, this time wondering if he was still on the line. As he prepared to answer, the mysterious intruder stepped into his line of sight. He dropped the phone, astonished. "Lora," He breathed.

Lora Bradley smiled in amusement at his expression; he looked like he had seen a ghost. "Hey, Alan," She greeted. Alan stared at her for a while longer, processing the fact that she was actually here in their house, before bending over and picking up the receiver. _"Mr. Bradley, are you still-"_ He placed the phone back on the cradle, cutting the receptionist off. Another moment of silence passed between them before Alan snapped himself out of his stupor and started toward her. Lora dropped her bags and opened her arms to him. Alan embraced her in a hug that was returned with equal affection, if not more.

Lora giggled at his enthusiasm, just as happy to be in his arms again. He pulled away from her, giving her a once over. Her taste in clothes certainly hadn't changed, she still wore jeans and a blouse under a tweed suit jacket. The only radical difference about her was her hair, it was still blonde (no signs of graying, like his own), but cut extremely short. "You cut your hair," He stated. A self-conscious hand reached up and patted the jagged ends of her pixie cut, her uncertain gaze met Alan's wide-eyes. "You don't like it?" She asked.

"No, its fine," He replied with a smile. "Compliments your features."

"Yeah?" She smiled.

He nodded. "What are you doing here? I didn't expect you come for Jet until after New Years."

"I'm not here take Jet back to Washington. I took a sabbatical," Lora explained, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. "I explained to my boss that I had family issues I had to take care, the kind that doesn't take a couple weeks to solve. She understood and gave me a six month leave." She frowned in contemplation as her eyes shifted toward the stairs. "When you didn't return my calls, I got worried. Is Jethro alright?"

Alan shook his head. "No, he's angry with me over work and Sam," He explained. "I planned on making it up to him, but I got distracted when he told you'd called three days ago."

"You should've called me sooner, Alan. He's my son too, I would have had no problem dropping everything and coming back here," Lora chided softly.

"I know, I know, I know," Alan grumbled guilty. "I just thought I could all of this on my own. Guess I made a mess of things, huh?"

Lora smiled. "It goes both ways, I think," She sighed. "I should've come home as soon as Flynn was declared missing. Is Jethro upstairs?"

"You mean you can't tell?" Alan remarked dryly. They both averted their gazes toward the staircase, Lora picked up the faint distinction of music coming from her son's bedroom, as always, it was Journey - a group she'd been a fan of herself once upon a time during her time with Flynn.

The apple didn't fall far from the tree in that regard it seemed.

Pulling away from Alan, she made her way upstairs, the usual click of her heels was muted by the half-carpet on the stairs. Alan followed behind her, he eyed the bedroom door on the right with mild apprehension. Lora showed no such fear as she marched up to her son's bedroom door, without a second thought she raised a hand to the door and knocked twice. There was no indication that Jet heard the knock as the music continued on at the same volume; Lora shared a look with her husband, hand reaching for the door as she did.

The music stopped, the door opened. Jet was geared and ready to insult his father, but halted at the sight of his mother standing before him. It was almost comical, watching Jet's expression go from hard to confused and exuberant in one second flat.

There was no time for Lora to greet her son, what air she had in her lungs was knocked out of her when he threw himself against her midsection. Lora marveled at the size of her son, he was twice the size he'd been when she last saw him, his gangly limbs made him look older than he truly was, if only in height. He pulled away from her, eyes alight with excitement. "You didn't tell me you were coming!" Jet proclaimed happily.

"That's because I wanted to surprise you," Lora chuckled, ruffling his hair. "I'm on break, so I can be here with you for six months. How does that sound?" Jet shrugged his shoulders; it wasn't the rescue from LA he was hoping, but his mother was here in front of him now, so that more than made up for it. "Sounds great!" He declared happily, pulling away from her. "You cut your hair."

Lora's chest puffed up a little. "Do you like it? I did it myself."

"It's not bad, it makes you look younger than pops," Jet answered, gesturing to the man behind her. Alan's brow wrinkled in mild offense, Lora cast a glance over her shoulder and muttered an apology to her husband. When she turned around, Jet was already retreating into his bedroom, heading for the radio. Lora let herself, relieved to see that nothing much had changed within since the last time she was here; The _TRON_ posters were still plastered on the wall above the floor shelf that housed his action figures, clothes were still scattered about on the floor, the computer resided on his work desk next to his school books. "Before you turn that radio on, Jethro, we really need to talk about some things," Lora sighed.

Jet turned in response to the parental tone in her voice, gaze narrowing in defense. "Whatever he told you, I didn't do anything," He protested. "Haven't done anything, anyways."

Alan reframed from saying anything, knowing it wouldn't do him any good to argue otherwise with his son, who was clearly angrier than he let on. "Oh, it's nothing like that, kiddo," Lora assured him as she sat on his bed. "Come here."

Jet approached the bed with caution, he eyed his mother's placating smile and the way her fingers were spread out across the sheet in suspicion. He situated himself on the edge of the bed, preferring to keep a fair distance between himself and the parental unit.

Lora looked to her husband and extended her hand out to him, Alan removed himself from the threshold of the door in three long strides. His fingers grasped hers as he kneeled down next to her, he propped his chin on her leg without really thinking about how his son would think of it.

"Okay, so, I know I haven't been around as much you'd like and for that, I'm sorry," She said.

Jet shrugged. "S'okay, you have to work," He mumbled.

"No, no it's not. We both really screwed up this whole situation. I should've been here for you when your dad couldn't, so you didn't feel like you were being pushed to the wayside in favor of work and Sam-"

"I never said I was upset about any of that stuff," Jet interjected, turning his back on them. "In fact that I'm not."

"Then why are you angry?" Alan asked.

"'Cause I can be," Was his son's answer. "No one said I had to be angry for a reason."

"Jethro, no one is saying you can't be angry at us," Lora said. "It's perfectly normal to be upset, especially in this situation."

Silence.

Lora tried again. "Alan tells me Sam won't talk to you, not even when you visit. He won't talk to Alan or his grandparents either."

"Big deal, Sam's a jerk."

"Sam is hurting, Jethro, and sometimes people aren't the nicest creatures in the world when their hurting." Lora paused. "He misses his father and I know you miss him too."

"No, I don't, I hate Uncle Kevin," He rebuked quickly. "He can stay gone for all I care."

"You don't mean that, Jet," Alan chipped in. "If you did, you wouldn't have reacted so strongly."

"Whatever."

Alan and Lora shared exasperated looks. "Sweetheart, all I want to do right now is apologize for how we handled things, okay? Whenever you feel it's alright to forgive us is your prerogative, just know that we're here, that I'm here now," She said. "No one's going leave you."

Jet chose not to respond, both parents realized it would futile to continue on and convince him of their guilt, let alone attempt to get him to reveal what he was really feeling; even if it was written in his responses and body language. Rising from her spot on the bed and his kneeling position next to her, Lora leaned forward and kissed her son on the side of his head. Jet remained completely still. She and Alan proceeded out of his bedroom. Jet waited until he heard the click of the door to wipe his face of the rogue tears that slipped past his defenses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Don't Stop Believin'"_ © Journey  & Columbia Records.


	4. Four: Before the Jump

* * *

**(December 28** **TH** **, 1989):**

Dr. Arnspiger was a nice enough man when Sam thought about it, for a shrink and a bald man. He hadn't known about it until six months ago, but Arnspiger was his father's psychiatrist after his mother's death in '85. He helped Kevin deal with the "ramifications" of events he had no control over, helped him moved past it as much as he possibly could. Sam never knew that his father blamed himself for what happened to mom, he couldn't see how he could.

From what he understood, Jordan left the house to go to work early, taken the same road she always used to get from their neighborhood into the city and was blindsided by a speeding driver. She died fifteen minutes later during paramedics attempt to free her from the station wagon.

He understood the concept of "what ifs", Sam dreamed all the time of how he could have kept his father from getting on that bike and "going to work" at the arcade. There wasn't angle his mind didn't go over how to prevent the disappearance of Kevin Flynn, there even some instances in which the scenarios felt so real that he'd wake up expecting to find dad waiting for him in the kitchen, breakfast ready for eating.

Nevertheless, as contradictory as it sounded, he never understood his father's guilt toward what happened to his mother. He wasn't in the car, so how he could he have stopped her death?

"So how've you been Sam?" Arnspiger's voice brought him out of his reverie; he opened his eyes and stared up at the Rorschach patterns framed on the wall behind the doctor's desk, studying the arachnid-like shapes. A sterile environment, the doctor's office was dim, wallpaper was a striped combination of mint green and cream and all the furniture was either hardwood or cushioned like the couch he sat on. A picture of Dr. Arnspiger's wife sat at an angle on his desk for all to see and for whatever reason, it bothered Sam like an itch he couldn't scratch.

"I've been okay, I guess," He murmured.

"Any nightmares?"

"No, none. No dreams at all, really."

"Why is that?"

"Gram tells me it because I'm too tired to think of anything."

"That certainly is one possibility."

"I guess."

"Speaking of which, Deana tells me you've been doing well at school."

"Yep, all A's, maybe the occasional B, but mostly A's," Sam recounted. The memory of white paper, letters and numbers are easy to recall, maybe moreso than details of what he had for breakfast. Scratching the back of his neck, he swallowed against the dry patch in the back of his throat. "So do you want to talk about dad, or can I go?"

"It's what I'm getting paid for, Sam, but if you don't want to, we can just sit here. I get a paycheck regardless," Arnspiger stated casually. Sam frowned pointedly at the bald man, were all these doctors the same way with their patients? Play the "calm" card, make 'em look stupid for being so antsy? It was a lose/lose situation for Sam either way, if he left, his grandparents would jump on his case, if he stayed here, he'd have to endure a whole two hours with this guy. Why was life so rotten to him?

"Is it alright if I talk about something else?"

"Sure, what do you want to talk about?"

"I, uh, I haven't spoken to my friend in over eight months," Sam confessed.

"You, mean Jethro Bradley?"

"Jet."

"Pardon me?"

"His name's Jet, it's what everyone calls him. The only person who ever calls him Jethro is his mom, Lora."

Dr. Arnspiger looked a little slighted by the correction but nodded all the same. "Okay, Jet," He said. "So why haven't you spoken to him?"

"I... I dunno, I guess I was angry at him or something," Sam sighed, leaning back against the cushions.

"You guess or you know?" Dr. Arnspiger asked. "What did he do exactly to make you angry at him?"

"Nothing! He didn't do - he didn't do anything." And, really, he hadn't; Sam disconnected himself entirely from Jet and Alan after dad disappeared; He saw Alan often enough, but made a point to never be in the same room for too long a time. Jet, one the other hand, was persistent in his attempt to get him to talk.

He visited almost every day after school, talked his grandparents when he refused to come down from his bedroom or dare to venture up to the second floor whenever his door was open. Either way, Sam really didn't want to be in his company, he didn't want to be in anyone's company, but Jet didn't know when to quit.

Sam's patience, or lack thereof, ran out and one day, he stopped him at the door, told him "I don't want you coming over anymore," and slammed it in his face. Guilt didn't hit him until he returned to school, but he might as well have not existed to Jet. The younger Bradley ignored and avoided him at every turn that brought their paths together, even seemed to have found himself new friends. It was like being on the other side of the mirror and being unable to break through.

"He just wanted to see if I was alright, I guess. He kept coming over to my house until I slammed the door in face," Sam huffed. "He hasn't talked to me since."

"I see."

"I mean, I've tried apologizing, but he just won't talk to me."

"You do realize that he was probably feeling alone?" Dr. Arnspiger asked.

That raised an eyebrow. "No, I didn't," Sam replied. "I mean why would he? He's got Lora and Alan to look to."

"Well, consider the fact that, like your father, his parents have time consuming jobs. His mother works and lives in Washington, his father- from what you tell me - is relatively busy with ENCOM and helping you, correct?"

"Your not wrong, there, yeah."

"Then is it safe to assume he would come to you for company?"

"…Yeah, I guess so," Sam conceded, rubbing his neck. He hadn't thought of it quite that way and in retrospect it made complete sense. "Why didn't he just say he wanted company?"

Dr. Arnspiger shrugged his shoulders, placing a hand under his chin. "Who knows? In any case, I suspect if he had, you still would've closed the door in his face."

"I just needed some space from everybody, alright?" Sam said. "If wasn't Mac or Gram, then Jet or Alan were coming over and bugging the heck out of me," Sam snapped. "You know how it is, when you need space?"

"Absolutely."

"So why are you making me out to be the bad guy?"

"I've done no such thing," Arnspiger said. "It's perfectly normal to react like you did, Sam. Your going through something almost everyone will experience at one point in their life-"

"My dad's not dead," Sam interjected sharply. Silence, long insufferable silence followed afterward. Sam grinded his teeth behind a closed mouth, Dr. Arnspiger stared back at him, completely unperturbed by Sam's glare. "Do you want to talk about Kevin now?" He asked. Sam's glare became narrower as he grabbed his jacket from off the arm of the couch, standing up he shook his head. "No, I think I'm gonna call it day. Let off some steam," Sam replied in a controlled tone. He didn't wait for a response from the doctor, he walked past his chair and made for the door.

"Oh, well, let me know how it goes with Jet," Dr. Arnspiger called over his shoulder. Sam, halfway out of the door, turned to glare at the shine on the man's hairless cranium. "Oh, you'll be the first to know, doc," He said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He paid his grandparents no mind as he slammed the office door shut with all the force he could muster. Deana and Mac rose from their seats in the waiting room, their expressions apprehensive. "You alright, kiddo?" Mac asked gently, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"How'd it go?" Deana inquired, tucking a strand of gray hair behind her ear. Sam forced himself to smile. "Wonderful, can't you tell?" He replied, marching past them.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Authors Notes:** These last two chapters didn't turn out quite like I hoped they did (what started out as quite elaborate ended up contracted and derailed by Writer's Block) and yet, with the inevitable jump in time that will occur sooner or later, I hoped I did an adequate job with setting up Sam and Jet's childhood persona's up. More will be revealed on the TRON System and the betrayal of Clu throughout the story. Also, I've no idea what the names of Kevin's parents are. Deana is randomly chosen name and I vaguely remember hearing "Mac" when Sam was telling him about the grandfather's passing (but I really wasn't paying attention to the dialog then, so I'm probably wrong on that part).


	5. There was the Fall (Interlude I)

**INTERLUDE 01: There was the Fall**

* * *

 **(May 1989, TRON System):**

* * *

Kevin Flynn was beginning to feel like a worn out record, there was no other way of describing it. In spite of all his efforts to maintain both his worlds, the world of the Grid was beginning to crumble around his very ears. Clu was adamant that Kevin was slighting his attempts to maintain the system's order with his constant comparisons to the real world, making light of all his efforts to build their world in his absence, when it was the exact opposite.

He wasn't sure where he went wrong when he programmed Clu 2.0, but it was clear his program's comprehension of "perfect", "order" and "reality" were slanted in ways that he never fully understood until now. (Hell, maybe his was as well.) Tron had come to him with unsettling evidence that opened his eyes to the errors within his program. In the aftermath, in which Clu painted himself a hero by destroying the very Guard he set up to take the fall, Kevin couldn't see him as an enemy, just a growing fault within the system cause by himself.

The problem was that he knew how to fix the fault, but to do so he believed he would be violating his program's every right to function as is.

"Kevin Flynn, you wanted to speak to me?" The voice, so soft electronic and utterly familiar, danced on the artificial air around him. Kevin turned in response, Ma3a walked toward him as if she were floating on air. A being comprised of an eerie sort of ethereal glow that encompassed her entire body, Ma3a was one of the most unique programs Lora had ever created and using the fragmented data leftover from the MCP.

She wore a form fitting gown that seemed apart of her body as opposed to simply covering it. Her blonde hair was twisted up in an crown that spiraled into a braided bun atop her head, her circuitry, though minimal, remained unchanged from the port to the new system, which made him question how much control over her projected appearance she had. He smiled at his friend's second avatar with what little enthusiasm he had. "Yes, I did," He replied. "Hey, Tron."

Ma3a cast a wary glance over her shoulder and sure enough the ENCOM program was standing behind her, disc clenched in his right hand and helmet masking his features. "Greetings, Flynn," He said with detached respect. Tron was understandably upset with Flynn and the decision not to do anything with Clu other than put him under "house arrest". There was too much about Clu that reminded him of Sark before he and the MCP took control of the sever, but Kevin assured him that Clu wasn't so poorly programmed that he would revolt against his own User.

She tilted her head. "What did you wish to speak about?"

Stepping away from the edge of the sea, Kevin fiddled nervously with the sleeves of his jacket. "I'm leaving the system again," He started. Ma3a wore an expression that neither indicated nor implied that she cared too much about the announcement, but the sigh from behind the helmet let Kevin know Tron wasn't happy. "Very well. When you will return?" She asked.

"I don't know, honestly," Kevin replied. "There are matters I need to attend to in the real world, mattes I can't ignore."

"You mean your son, Sam Flynn," Ma3a stated. "The newer version of yourself." Kevin paused, searching for an appropriate answer to the statement. No matter how much he attempted to explain the process of childbirth and children to programs, it was ultimately a concept they would never understand completely.

"Yes, my son," He said. "He stills needs me and I have to be there for him."

"What are you going to do about Clu?" Tron inquired.

Kevin sighed. "I'll have to reprogram him, of course. I don't want to, but if he's going to continue acting as system administrator, he'll- he'll have to be fixed."

"You mean reformatted, don't you?" Ma3a corrected. At his cringe, she shrugged. "It's not uncommon for programs, my User reformatted many simulation programs before our sector was shutdown. She would've reformatted Yori had you not requested to port her to this system." Kevin blinked in bewilderment, he sent a glance in Tron's direction. The security program's shoulders had become straighter, the angle of his head indicated his gaze was on the back of Ma3a's head.

"Yes, I guess that's what I mea-" Kevin's voice faltered and trailed off. For a moment, the two programs wondered what was wrong with him when they turned, following his gaze across mesa. Eight lightcycles in triangle formation were on fast approach, the red and orange circuitry illuminated the bleak atmosphere of the outlands like a beacons, attracting the attention of all those who saw them. Tron's helmet reacted into his lightsuit, he turned to regard Kevin, as he surely would've known what was going on. "Did you call anyone else here, Flynn?"

"No, I figured they were with you," Kevin stated nervously.

Tron shifted his gaze over to ISO creator. "Ma3a?"

"I did not request an escort, Tron. I did not even request for you to follow me, so I can only wonder at their presence," Came the dry response. Tron reframed from commenting on the last bit of her answer, instead he chose to focus his attention on the matter at hand. The lightcycles spread out as they came to a halt, not ten feet away from them, the riders dismounted, batons deactivating and returning to their dormant state. One of the riders stepped forward, Tron positioned himself in front of Ma3a who instinctively stepped back. "Identify yourself, program," Tron said.

The helmet of the center rider retracted to reveal Clu, Tron nearly dropped his identity disc. Clu smiled at his reaction, he looked to Kevin, who seemed equally surprised, if not mortified. Ma3a, on the other hand, simply looked curious. "Clu, you're supposed to be under guard, what are you doing here?"

"Oh, rest assured, Tron, I am under guard," Clu stated, gesturing to the programs behind him. "As to what I'm doing here?" He shrugged. "Yori was kind enough to let me out."

"She would never-"

"No, not by choice, she needed a little convincing," Clu grinned mischievously, tapping the tip of his nose for effect. Tron felt his circuits burn red as he clenched his teeth. "If you've hurt her-"

"Guys, enough of this," Kevin interjected stepping out from behind his friend. "Clu, what's going on, man? You aren't supposed to be here." Clu tilted his head in mild amusement at the question, as if the Creator didn't know. "Flynn, am I still to create the perfect system?" It was a simple enough question, but it caught the User off guard. Kevin looked to his program and the Guard behind him in uncertainty.

"…Y-yeah, sure, but-" Kevin wasn't terribly sure himself if that's what he wanted his program to do anymore, but the answer was all the assurance Clu needed. He stepped away, a determined expression replacing his angry one as his helmet slipped down over his face. The Guard spread out around the trio, brandishing their batons in preparation for attack.

Tron hated the sick sense of satisfaction that rolled through his stomach as he watched the Guard fan out around them. He knew this would happen, but did it have to happen when he was least prepared for it? "Flynn."

"Yeah?"

"Take Ma3a, get as far away from here as possible."

"But-" Kevin's protest was lost in translation; the guard raced forward, batons becoming staffs and swords. Kevin grabbed Ma3a by the arms and pulled her away from the scene, she followed willingly and without protest. Tron ducked the first blow from the guard on the right, kneeling he grabbed his own baton from its holster, bringing it up in time to block the sword aimed for his head.

Sparks ignited around the weapons, shoving away from the guard, Tron slashed upward with his disc at the enemy on the right, the guard backed away and swung wide with his staff. Tron barely had a chance to step out of the way, the end of the staff missed his kneecap by a few inches, incapacitating two of the guard instead. Their legs shattered underneath them, they collapsed, howling in pain.

Two down, five more to go. He threw his disc, sending it flying over their heads, one of them laughed at his presumed error, thinking he'd meant to hit him. Two on the right rushed him, Tron ducked away from guard 4's sword as it came at him, but failed to move fast enough to avoid the guard 3's disc.

It came down hard on his shoulder, shattering the surface coding. Tron let out a short-lived scream, the fifth guard thrust his leg out and kicked him square in the chest. He slid unceremoniously across the ground on his back. He stopped a few inches short from Flynn's lightcycle, completely winded by the attack.

For a moment, the system seemed pause, Tron listened to the harsh footfalls rushing toward him, he listened for the sound of Flynn or Clu's voice and the identity disc swinging back around to hit its intended targets. He lifted himself off the ground in time to catch the blue flash disappear behind the backs of the five guards coming at him. They weren't two inches from striking distance when the disc sliced through their midsections, reducing them to useless bits of corrupt code.

Tron huffed in satisfaction as he watched them scatter across the ground. Holstering his baton, he raised his good arm to catch his disc as it returned to him. A decidedly masculine scream startled him out of his momentary pause, he looked to the right and witnessed as Clu, who marched after Flynn with the intent to kill, slapped Ma3a to the side like she was nothing.

Disregarding his own pain and injuries, Tron pulled himself from off the ground and rushed forward with impressive speed. "Clu!" The program turned in response, completely unprepared for the ambush. Tron hooked his arm around his waist and brought him down in one swift move. Kevin watched in astonishment as the two rolled across the ground, combating the other for control. Tron ended up on top, bringing his knee down into Clu's chest and punching him square in the face. _"Flynn, run!"_

Run and leave him here? It was the last thing he wanted to do, but Kevin knew he was no match for Clu if he bested Tron. He would only of use to them outside the system. Uprooting his feet from their place, Kevin made a blind dash for his bike. The top retracted upon his arrival, he climbed onto the seat, fingers fumbling to grip the handlebars. "Ma3a!"

The ethereal program glanced up from her place on the ground as she rose to her feet. Her hair was ruined, her face bruised from the backhand she'd received from Clu earlier during Tron's battle with the guard, but she maintained her stolidity. His bike wasn't built for two passengers, but he couldn't dream of leave her here.

"Ma3a, c'mon!" He called out to her again.

Ma3a remained where she was.

"Ma3a!"

"I can't," Was her response. "My place is here with the ISOs, I will not abandon them to preserve myself." Kevin balked, had she lost her mind? She was the one responsible for all the progression the Grid had managed to achieve! Leaving her here would leave her open to attack from Clu and worse, handicap Tron if his program got a hold of her. Ma3a turned her back to him and proceeded away from Kevin and the fight.

Kevin watched her go, heart constricting his breathing as he did, turning his head away from her retreating figure, he refocused his attention on the conflict between Tron and Clu; somewhere between his own conflict with Ma3a, Clu had gained the upper hand. He stood triumphant over who Tron lay on the ground, unmoving, the data fracture from his shoulder had extended itself past his shoulder blade down his arm.

Kevin felt the blood leave his face when Clu turned and met his gaze. He was completely unlike the thing he created six years ago, he'd become something else entirely. Something of his own design. Stepping away from Tron, Clu regarded Kevin with cold indifference, disc tapping idly against his leg in an attempt to goad him into action. Kevin didn't know what it meant, he only knew if he didn't get moving there would be chance to fix things and no chance to return to Sam.

He had to get back to the portal.

Like clockwork, his body acted of it's own accord, Kevin felt himself lean forward and rev the engine of his lightcycle. The hardtop slid overhead, pressing down on the gas he started driving in a direction he hoped take him the farthest from Clu.

* * *

 **(TBC)**


	6. Five: Who am I to disagree

**(December 28** **TH** **, 1989):**

* * *

As expected, things didn't go over so well with his grandparents when he told them what happened in Dr. Arnspiger's office, though he contested none of it was really his fault. They were angrier about the fact that he left before the session was over as opposed to the subject he decided to talk to them about. "Sam, you have to commit yourself to these sessions or you won't be able to move on," Deana chided. "Kevin would want you to move on, he would want you to be happy again."

"Why does everyone talk about my dad like he's dead? He's not dead, he's missing," Sam said. "There's a difference."

"No one's saying that Kevin's dead, kiddo-"

"Well, Dr. Arnspiger sure thinks so-"

"-We're just saying you need to keep going until he comes back-"

"-So why am I supposed to believe you don't either?" Mac and Sam spoke over each other's words, not caring how rude or chaotic it sounded to Deana's ears. Placing a hand atop the driver's side seat, Deana leaned sideways in her seat and regarded her grandson in the rearview mirror. "Sweetheart, we don't think Kevin is dead, he's our son," She said. "We want him back just as much as you do, but it doesn't do you any good to keep your emotions bottled up like you have."

Sam huffed in mild disagreement as he sat back in his seat; he didn't understand the need for people to make him talk when he didn't want to. He was dealing with dad's disappearance just fine, just because he wasn't sobbing like some girl didn't mean he was no more or less hurt by the ordeal. He was dealing with the situation in the way he knew how, which was not to say anything at all. "I wanna go over to Jet's house," He said after a moment of silence.

Mac gave him a sidelong look through the rearview mirror. "We're almost home."

"I know, but I really need to talk to him. In person," Sam argued. "Please?"

"Sammy-"

"Jet's not gonna answer the phone when he knows it's me, Gram," He said. "I really need to do this."

Deana sighed in resignation as she turned to regard her husband. Mac looked less than pleased with the idea of turning back around and driving all the way through the city just to get to the Bradley's neighborhood. Mac grunted in annoyance, the look his wife was giving him, disarming enough to fool anyone who didn't know her into thinking she was against Sam's idea, implied he had little choice in the matter.

Stopping at the red light, he switched on his turn single and focused on the road to the right of him. Sam smiled gleefully, slapping his knees in satisfaction. "Thanks you guys, you're coolest grandparents ever," He said.

"Yes, well, we'll see how long you think that once you find out what you have to do repay us," Mac grumbled as the light turned green. Sam pad his grandfather's words no real heed, instead he busied himself with counting every street sign they passed on the way to the Bradley's house.

They arrived at their destination 50 minutes later, Sam was literally bouncing in his seat as the van pulled up to the sidewalk. The car had barely come to a stop when he yanked the side door open and bounded out across the sidewalk. Deana and Mac followed him out of the car, they had no intentions of sitting in the car and waiting for him, the cold wouldn't do their bodies any good. "I won't be long, honest!" Sam called as he hurried up the stairs.

He stared at his reflection in the glass window of the door, he could see his grandparents coming up from behind at a casual pace as they admired the architecture of the arts and crafts house. Sam knocked once and rang the doorbell. The wait was surprisingly brief; the door opened and instead of Alan's towering figure, Sam was confronted with that of Lora Bradley's. "Sam!" She smiled down at him, pleasant as ever.

Opening the door a little more, she bent over a little and grabbed him up in hug, Sam felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment. "Hi, Lora," He mumbled against her blouse. Lora stepped away to get a better look at him; Sam hadn't gotten as tall as Jet, but he was just as big, especially for an eight year old. "When did you get back?" He asked.

"Six days ago," Lora replied with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm still jet lagged. Deana, Mac, its wonderful to see you again." Sam's grandparents waved in polite hello, they climbed the final set of stairs and joined their grandson on the porch. Lora regarded the Flynn's crowded on the front porch and gestured inside. "Well, please come inside," She said.

Sam obliged her request without hesitation, he was inside the house in less than ten seconds flat and making a beeline for the stairway. Deana and Mac were a little more graceful in their entrance; they took the time to thank Lora for inviting them and Sam into their home, Deana went as far as complimenting Lora's hairstyle.

Sam listened to their chatter as it fell behind him, he surveyed the dimly lit second floor hallway for any signs of human life. No activity to speak of on the left, but to his surprise, he found Alan staring at him on the right, sitting on the floor next to Jet's door. Sufficed to say, that startled Sam quite a bit. He stepped backward down the stairs, the last thing he expected to find was Alan impersonating a mannequin on the floor of the hallway. The man sat up a little as he leaned forward into the light. "Hey, Sam," Alan whispered by way of greeting. "How've you been?"

"I'm okay," He answered gingerly. "I've been going to therapy."

"So I've heard," Alan said, a wane smile graced his lips. "How do you like Dr. Arnspiger?"

"He thinks dad is dead," Was all Sam decided to say. The look on Alan's face indicated that he was all but surprised by this. It had been eight months since Kevin disappeared, it wasn't strange that everyone was beginning to think he died, let alone run away from the very thing he dedicated his adult life to.

Sam took comfort in the fact that Alan continued to champion the belief that his father had simply retreated from the world to pursue his dream; he was probably the only person who wasn't making funeral arrangements for Flynn. "Oh, well, he's entitled to his opinion, Sam," Alan replied diplomatically. "Even if it's wrong." Sam grunted in disagreement, no one was entitled to that sort of opinion when it came to his father. Silence lingered between them for a moment, with the exception of Lora and his grandparent's chatter below, there was not a sound made between them. Alan exhaled slowly as he focused his attention on the door beside him, raising a fist, he rapped lightly on the door. His answer was a fierce bang on the other side, Sam blinked in surprise. "What was that?"

"Jet's soccer ball," Alan mused. "He throws it at the door every time I knock."

"You guys have a fight or something?" Sam inquired.

"Or something," Alan shrugged. Sam climbed the rest of the stairs and approached the door. "He hasn't been happy with all the time I've been spending at work, let alone all the time I've spent trying to get through to you," Alan explained. "He feels as though I've dumped him and truth be told, I don't blame him for being angry."

"Dr. Arnspiger says he's just lonely," Sam said. "I think he's jealous."

"Jet's all of the above," Alan groaned as he pulled himself off the floor. Every muscle in his body protested to the sudden adjustment, Alan bit the inside of his cheek in annoyance, wishing he were twenty again. "He hasn't come out of that room in days and if he has, it's when Lora and I are asleep."

Now Sam had to laugh at that, focusing his attention on the door he banged on the door with the flat of his palm. "Hey, Jet, what are you five? Come out of the bedroom, I wanna talk to you." There was no response, Alan and Sam shared a look of uncertainty when the door opened. The bedroom light illuminated the hallway, momentarily blinding the both of them. Jet's figure appeared from behind the door, a frown formed on his lips as he regarded both Sam and Alan's contorted expressions. "What are you doing here, Flynn?" He asked. Sam allowed himself to become comfortable to the light once again as he studied the less than pleasant expression on his friend's face. Jet had called him "Flynn", which had done nothing except remind him of his father, only he was referred to as "Flynn" and rarely by his first or middle name.

Putting on an uneasy smile, Sam shrugged his shoulders. "Can we talk? I wanted to apologize for the way I've acted," He said. Jet's gaze narrowed behind his glasses, he turned his gaze onto his father as if to ask if he were the one who put Sam up to this. Alan raised his hands in mock surrender, eyebrows raised above his hairline. "He came here on his own, Jet," Alan stated. "I've got nothing to do with this."

"What, you think I'm proud to apologize-"

"Yeah, I do," Jet answered without hesitation.

Sam balked. "Why do I even need to apologize? You're the one who kept coming over when I didn't want you there!"

"Hmm, let's see," Jet feigned a pensive expression. "You slammed the door in my face, you almost broke my only pair of glasses, and you stole my father from me-"

"Erh, Jet-" Alan started to interrupt, but was stopped by Sam's "Oh, come on. I didn't steal anything from you, I didn't break your glasses! Quick acting like such a girl-"

Sam never saw the fist flying at his face until it connected with his nose, multicolored stars filled his vision as he stumbled back in surprise. There was a startled shout from Alan, but all Sam could focus on was warm feeling of blood running down his nose. When he opened his eyes, Jet was staring him down like a cat whose territory had been threatened. Sam was feeling a little like a dog that'd been slapped by said cat.

No one punched him and got away with it. Reacting on pure instinct, Sam rushed Jet, knocking the arm he'd used to punch him with out of Alan's reprimanding grip.

"Sam!"

Common sense was all but forgotten as they tumbled across the floor, Jet felt the air knocked from his lungs when Sam's weight came crashing down him. His glasses flew from his face and slide across the floor. He thrust forward with the arm pinned between his chest and Sam's shoulder to give himself wiggle room, Sam rolled off to the right, but rebounded quick enough to pin Jet back down. Their limbs flailed against the other as they combated each other; on more than on occasion were nails and teeth employed when fists were unable connect with their intended targets.

"Jet!"

Out the two of them, Jet acknowledged Sam was the better fighter. He'd never been able to win a fight, even if he was the one that started it. So it didn't so much surprise him as it did anger him, when they ended with their backs against the wall, that Sam's arm locked around his neck in a chokehold.

Several pair of hands grabbed at their clothes and pulled them away from each other, Sam flailed in protest at the arm that practically lifted him off the ground. Lora, whose expression was as sour as they came, kept Jet against the wall. Alan put Sam on the ground, but kept a firm grip on the collar of his shirt. Deana and Mac entered the bedroom last, looking winded from the trek up the stairs.

Deana looked to her grandson in exasperation. "I though you said you wanted to talk him, Sam, not pummel him," She said.

"I did!" Sam bellowed, ignoring the twinge of pain his nose. "Captain Asshat punched me, he started this!"

"Language, Sam," Lora snapped. "Jethro?" Jet huffed in protest, he tried to shove his mother's hands away from his chest, but Lora pushed him back against the wall. "Jethro, answer the question," She said.

"Yeah, I punched him," Jet replied, disgruntled. "But, he deserved it."

"Whether he deserved it makes little or no difference, young man," Lora scolded. "You had no right to hit him. Neither of you had no business fighting each other; I mean, look at this-" Lora gestured to the raw teeth marks on Jet's forearm and Sam's bloody nose. "-This isn't how we resolve our problems!"

"I was perfectly willing to talk," Sam exclaimed. "He punched me, he should get punished."

Jet rolled his eyes. "Now who's acting like a girl?"

"Well you should-"

"Boys, shut up, right now," Alan demanded in a tone that left no room for argument. "As far as Jet's concerned, he'll be grounded. I'll let your grandparents deal with you, Sam."

"But I didn't do anything!" Sam practically cried. "I was just defending myself."

"Trying to punch holes in someone's arm with your teeth is not defending yourself, Sam," Alan rebuked. "You outright attacked him when you could've walked away."

"I'd like to see you walk away from someone after you get punched in the nose," Sam spat. Alan reframed from responding to the jibe, he ushered Sam in the direction of his parents.

"You should probably get him out of here-" Alan started say when Lora hand clamped down on his shoulder. He looked to his wife in question, Lora's expression was stern. Her eyes darted back and forth between her son and Sam like a hawk watching her prey. "Sam's not going home, Alan," She said.

"He's not?"

"No, we are all of us gonna work this problem out right here, right now. I won't have any more of this foolishness going on between us, understand?" Sam nodded in resigned understanding, Jet folded his arms and looked the other way.

"Good," She sighed, folding her arms across her chest. "If everyone would follow me downstairs to the living room, we can get this over with."

* * *

**(TBC)**


	7. Consequence (Interlude II)

**(Deleted Program Storage and Processing, TRON System):**

* * *

Yori has lost track of time, Tron couldn't tell how long they've been the cell. Days, months, years? He wasn't sure what Flynn had in mind with these holding cells when he installed a scrambler, but if the goal was distract the prisoner from the passage of time, it failed miserably in that sense. All they could think of was time.

Time motivated their actions, time brought them to where they were now; Time was allowing Clu to go unpunished for what he was doing to the system. There wasn't a day that went by that they don't think about what they did. Yori regretted opening Clu's holding cell every single mircocycle of her confinement, Tron simply wished he'd fought harder than he had. The line between his defeat and Clu's success blurred, he couldn't calculate when he'd lost the advantage of victory, assumed it was an error in his processing code.

He shouldn't have been defeated as easily as he had; between the two of them, he was the more experienced fighter, Clu was just an upstart program, barely out of his "boyhood".

His damaged arm went unrepaired, Yori did what she could to keep it from derezzing, but it wasn't enough. Tron felt helpless in his own body, he hated the fact that he couldn't so much as move without causing his system to shut down to reboot and repair itself. It wasn't healthy, he was sure he was loosing important functions and causing Yori to worry unnecessarily.

Clu's voice boomed everywhere around them, every day there was a new announcement, a new rule. The Guard were pulling more and more programs off the streets and into the cells, the whispered fears of being derezzed in the game arena or repurposed grew more and more intense the longer they stayed in that tiny cell.

Tron could only wonder what happened to everyone they knew as none of them had shown up in imprisonment. The likely possibility was that Clu derezzed them on the spot when he sprung his coup onto the unsuspecting programs and Isomorphs. He could only pray the lack of mention Clu was giving Flynn meant he was fortunate to get away from the malicious program. The Users could grant him that much peace of mind.

Then there was Ma3a, he had no idea what happened to her or rather what _would_ happen to her and ISOs when Clu decided to rid the system of their presence. The reality of their situation told him Clu would kill them without a moments hesitation, but would an entire system of programs strong enough to combat the rule of one allow this happen? Would they let their contempt for the ISOs blind them so much that they would the death of innocents if it was within their power to stop him?

Opening his eyes, he found himself face to face with the wall beside him. He turned his head to the left, suddenly hyperaware of the bed he was lying on. Yori sat on the floor, on leg up against her chest and an arm resting on its knee. She looked as defeated as he felt, the light of her circuits were dull, her hair hung lifeless on her back and shoulders. Her eyes were downcast, watching her right hand's fingers trace the grooves in the tile. He watched her repeat the process over and over again, trailing her finger across the grove as if she could unlock its secrets with the repetitive motion.

"Yori-" He winced at the spark in his voice box. She looked up, startled by the sound of his voice. Her troubles forgotten, she rose from the ground and started toward the flat, uncomfortable bed. She managed a small smile for him as she sat on the edge of the bed, Tron sighed shortly as her hand made itself comfortable on his chest.

"How are you?" She asked softly. "Tired," He replied wearily. "Angry." Yori nodded understandingly. Tron's inability to move and the fact that they couldn't escape wore constantly at her mind. This wasn't the User's equivalent of a "time out", they were trapped inside this cell until one or both of them were thrown into the games or Clu derezzed them. She could only wonder what repurposing could mean for them.

Flynn had explained plainly enough that programs didn't have the permissions or comprehension to create fellow conscripts from scratch, only reprogram them. It wasn't like absorbing functions, but it was equally as violating of a program's freedom of choice and existence. It wasn't condoned by any program, except one infected by a corruption, like Abraxas, who lived to destroy or ruin the script of a system. Clu wasn't a Z-lot, he knew better than to mess with the coding of a program, so the reasoning behind the mass repurposing that was going on unsettled her to no end. It was as if she didn't even know him anymore. "While you were recharging Clu made another announcement," She said.

"What about?"

"He's spreading anti-User propaganda, he's saying the reason for all our problems were a direct cause of Flynn's negligence to his duties as primary administrator," She explained. "That all of this was apart of a greater plan that would allow the ISOs to rise to power."

"It's not true," Tron sighed.

"Well, I know that, and you know that, but-"

"The opinions of many are easily swayed given time."

Yori nodded solemnly, trailing her finger across his chest. "I miss your old circuits, there's something so impersonal about these tiny points of light," She sighed, plucking the raised parts of his chest armor. Tron shrugged his one good shoulder, doing his best to ignore the pulse of pain that ran across his shoulder blades into his damaged arm. "If we ever get out of this, I'll ask Flynn for a circuit upgrade," Tron murmured.

"That'd be nice," Yori beamed at her lover despite her mood, Tron was glad to see a genuine smile upon her face, he'd rarely been conscious for long to any expression outside of her defeated one. However, what was there to smile about now? For all intents and purposes the world Flynn created was about be remolded to suit the vision of "perfection" in the eyes of his errant program.

He knew Clu didn't know any better, but it didn't make Tron any more or less forgiving than he was currently was. Silence enveloped them for the second time, Yori was content with not speaking and Tron allowed himself to become lost in the "what ifs" and guilt of failing his friend.

The sound of approaching footfalls startled them out of their silent contemplation, Tron started to sit up but Yori's firm hand kept him down on the bed. The transparent barrier of energy that kept them confined inside their cell retreated as four figures appeared at the threshold; at the forefront was Clu, dressed in his regal robe, his circuits had adopted the mustard yellow color that seemed exclusively his alone.

Behind him stood two of the Guard and one hulking program that stood four heads above everyone else. His circuits were blood red, he carried a staff the same length of his body and had a face that reminded Yori of muzzled shark. An ICP she realized a moment later, guardians of the portal and transport mainframes.

Clu surveyed the general lack of space in cell before focusing his attention on Tron and Yori. "Greetings programs," He said as he stepped further into the cell. "I hope the accommodations have been kind to you these past cycles."

Tron glowered at Clu and made a move to sit up again, Yori kept her hand firm against his chest as she pulled her gaze away from the ICP standing behind them. "Cut the pleasantries, Clu. What is that you want?" Yori practically snapped. The shock in both Tron and the opposing party was evident on their faces, but Yori was oblivious to everything except her own anger.

'My, my, aren't we a sour pickle this evening? But if you don't wanna talk, I guess we can jump right to it," Clu chuckled, casting a glance over his shoulder. The two Guard stepped away from each other, allowing the ICP to step through where they once stood together. He bent down to enter the cell and started toward Tron and Yori. Clu smiled appreciatively up at the ICP as he stepped aside.

With an ICP, it was impossible to gauge what they were feeling as their faces provided no ample emotional description and left most to the imagination. "Congratulations, program," He began with a salute. Yori blinked twice in confusion, Tron wrapped his fingers around her wrist, unsure of what this conscript was trying to pull.

The ICP lowered his arm and placed his hands behind his back. "You've been selected by the creator for repurposing, effective immediately," The ICP finished. _Repurposing,_ the word rang in both their heads like a death rattle. Yori's complexion dimmed considerably, her body tensed with dread as Tron looked to the ICP and to Clu's repulsively smug expression. "You can't be serious, Clu," Tron couldn't hide the tremor in his voice. "Not-"

"I'm completely serious Tron," Clu spoke as if he were humoring a small child. "Neither you or Yori are exempt from this process. It's a crucial part of reintegrating everyone into the new system order." He smiled coolly as his eyes met Yori's. "I promise it won't even hurt."

"Sir?" Clu looked to the ICP and nodded his head in the affirmative. "Go ahead, Rttask."

The reality of their situation Tron as his grip on her wrist tightened a moment too late, Rttask stretched his hand forward and grabbed Yori by the arms, hoisting her off the ground. Yori was too startled to do anything except gasp, the countermeasure program's strength was immense. She felt her circuits whine in protest against the pressure applied to her arms a she was dragged - carried - away.

"Wait!" Tron reacted without thinking about his condition, he raised both his arms and grabbed hold of Yori's ankles. His rebellion, however, lasted only a moment as the pain from his damaged shoulder returned tenfold and traveled across every open circuit on his body. His entire upper body gave way beneath the agony, Tron hit the floor chest-first, writhing in pain. "Tron!" Seeing him like that was enough to cause Yori to struggle, Rttask, however, paid it no mind and continued out of the cell. "Tron!"

Tron watched from the ground as Yori was taken away from him, he struggled to get his body to do his bidding. No matter what he did he couldn't move from the place he'd fallen, he couldn't get to her. "Yori!" He bellowed her name with all the strength he could muster. Clu watched his friend on the ground, a grin on his face.

"Tron, your embarrassing yourself, man," Clu shook his head in amusement as he started toward writhing program, extending his leg he nudged the injured shoulder with nonchalance, blinking twice when Tron raised his head to meet his gaze. "Clu, you can't do this, it isn't right," He hissed. "This isn't what Flynn would've wanted for the system."

The smile vanished from the avatar's face, dissolving into a frown that reached his eyes. He kneeled down, on arm draped across his knee as he studied the underlying rage seeping through the pained expression of his former comrade.

"What Flynn wants or wanted no longer applies to me or this system. He's gone and now I am truly the creator he should've been to our world," Clu said, the smile returning to his lips. "All his errors will wiped clean, order will be restored and you and Yori will be apart of this transformation. All of the change will be thanks to you two."

"What about the Ma3a and ISOs?" He asked despite his anger.

Clu shrugged as if the question bared little importance to their conversation. "Well, they'll be dealt with of course," He replied. "The system can't have unpredictable programs running loose if perfection is to be reached, you know that, man."

"What I know is that your going against everything I or Yori stands for," Tron rasped. "Do you think if you do this, she'll be anymore accepting of your ideals if you do this to her?"

"I don't think it'll matter, buddy," Clu titled his head to the side in mild interest, his eyes rolled slowly in a half circle before he rose from ground. "You'll see, Tron, everything will work out for the best."

Tron watched helplessly from the ground as the saboteur departed from his cell, Clu's last words rang in his head like the recession of a bell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** We've come to the end of road for 1989 and it'll probably be quite a while before another interlude shows up in the storyline again and even then, they'll probably only be necessary if Flynn Senior doesn't end up playing narrator for the parts he was present and accounted for (shrugs). The storyline will now shift to the present of 2010, with Chapter Six, _"Futures",_ which is a set up for Jet and Sam's adult persona's.


	8. Six: Their Futures

**7:30AM:**

" _Hi, this is Jet. I'm not here right now, so leave it at the beep. …Thanks."_

**(BEEP)**

" _Hey, Jet, it's Sam. Yeah, I know, you haven't heard from me in ages. I just got back into town and I was just wonderin' how things were at the old arcade."_ Pause. _"Give me a call sometime, man."_

**7:45PM:**

" _Hi, this is Jet. I'm not here right now, so leave it at the beep. …Thanks."_

**(BEEP)**

" _Jethro, its mom. Your father wants me to tell you to stop sending messages to his pager. It's interrupting him at work."_

**7:59PM:**

" _Hi, this is Jet. I'm not here right now, so leave it at the beep. …Thanks."_

**(BEEP)**

A tiny series of growls and a sharp bark was the non-verbal message he received, followed by _"Marv, get off the phone!"_ That was Sam, but who was Marv?

**8:00PM:**

" _Hi, this is Jet. I'm not here right now, so leave it at the beep. …Thanks."_

**(BEEP)**

" _Jet, it's Annie. You're a whole hour late for work, you've missed the meeting! Thorne is furious, he wants to-"_

Jet's hand reached over and snatched the phone off the cradle, interrupting the frantic message from his co-worker. "Tell him I'm on my way," He answered through half-sleep. Annie didn't get a chance to respond to his reply before he ended the call. Dropping the wireless phone onto the floor, Jet scrubbed his face furiously as stretched his legs underneath the sheets of his bed.

Rolling onto his side, Jet stared at the clock, the large digital letters read 8:03AM. He was definitely late for work, which wasn't a first, but in this instance, it was the second to third strike on the batter's plate. If he was late tomorrow, strike three, Thorne was going to fire his ass. Behind him the sheets began to move of their own accord, he paid it no mind until he felt her chin dig into his side. "Late for work?" She murmured, pulling her red mane out of her face. Jet rolled half way onto his back and to regard the blur that was Eva Popoff with half-mass eyes. "Aren't you?" Eva shook her head, a sly smile crossing her lips. "I'm never late for work," She sighed nonchalantly, running her fingers through her hair.

Jet sighed dejectedly. Eva was lucky she had people who would cover for her if she were late, but for Jet, his absence was likely to be noticed regardless because he was head programmer for the Elfwood studios latest game in development. Sitting up, Jet ran his hand across his recently shaven hair. The spiky wisps of blonde hair stood upright at the very top of his head and seemed to lie flat on the back and sides of his head. "Have you seen my glasses?" He yawned.

Eva shrugged her shoulders as she surveyed the mess of clothing scattered across the floor. "Their somewhere amongst that mess of clothes on the floor. Your so untidy," The faintest hint of her accident hit his ears, which were only half-listening to her speak anyway, he blinked wearily at the prospect of feeling around for his glasses. Eva stood up from the bed and slipped into one of his shirts, strolling casually around the bed she said, "I'll look for them. In meantime, get washed up."

"Don't step on them," Jet yawned again in the affirmative, standing up he made his way out of the bedroom and down the stairs. It's an easy enough task without his glasses, Jet's spent the better part of ten years inside the hallowed halls of Flynn's Arcade, after leaving home for college, to know his way around blindfolded. Sam had planned on doing nothing with the place except keep it off the market; it was his father's home before he met his mother and thus would remain so until Sam didn't feel like paying for it anymore.

Walking past the staircase, Jet entered the tiny bathroom without pause. The door opened halfway at an angle, stopped by the sink on the other side, reaching over he turned the light on and proceeded toward the toilet. It took a total of fifteen minutes for Jet to wake himself up completely, by at the time, he was practically finished cleaning himself of yesterday's grime and wear. He replayed the fragmented memory of the messages he received all through seven o'clock, realizing, out of the four or five he got, he hasn't spoken to two of the callers on his phone since December.

Actually, he isn't sure when he last spoke of Sam. It was probably 2008 because he hadn't updated the prescription for his glasses then. His parents, he definitely hadn't spoken to them since his birthday last year. Eva was away at work - or doing something else entirely, he can't remember - so the homemade cake and French fries went down easier than they would've if she had been present.

His father was strangely civil, he didn't even try to bring up the issue of where he was working once, and his mother certainly seemed to enjoy the peace. For all intents and purposes, it was a good 28TH birthday. Stepping out of the bathroom, Jet hurried back up the stairs to get dressed.

"Eva?"

"Yes?"

"You find my glasses?"

" _Qui_ , I have them here," Eva stepped out of the bedroom, one arm raised to reveal his coveted pair of glasses. Jet came to a stop in front of her, Eva smiled at the appreciative look on his face as she placed his glasses on the bridge of his nose. The contours of her face sharpened, coming into focus; he blinked accordingly, allowing his eyes to adjust. "You shouldn't leave your clothes all over the place," She chided softly, pinching his nose. Jet grimaced, swatting her hand away from his nose. He shrugged in mock-hopelessness as he entered his bedroom. Snatching up a short sleeved t-shirt from off the floor, he pulled it over his head in one quick tug. "What can I say? It's a habit I can't seem to kick," And truth be told, he was only half-joking.

* * *

**(Sam's "Apartment"):**

* * *

The sun had barely risen out from behind the clouds when the Ducati rolled back into Los Angeles' warehouse district. The helmet of the rider masked his identity from passing crowds on the sidewalks (if you can call workers "crowds"), but the tiny dog, stuffed in his backpack hanging off the front of the rider's chest instead of resting on his back, was in plain sight, enjoying himself as his tongue and ears caught the wind.

Turning the corner, he steered the bike down into the dirt road incline surrounded by overgrown weeds and fallen trees, Marv barked happily at the familiar sight of home. Sam laughed in amusement when he felt the little dog squirm excitedly in the backpack, glad he wasn't the only one happy to be home. The Ducati rolled to a stop in front of the closed garage door, killing the engine the young man hopped off the bike and unzipped the backpack.

Marv hopped out, landing on the ground with elegance, he walked in circles around Sam's feet before moving to scratch at the door. Sam pulled the helmet from his head, the sounds of the early morning came rushing into his ears, intensifying Marvin's precocious barks. "Hold your horses, buddy," He said. Kneeling down, Sam grabbed the edges of the door and pulled his weight upward.

The door slid open at gradual pace, revealing a drab living space built for one and ½ people. Once the door had disappeared above, Marvin hurried inside toward his bed. Sam strolled over to his couch, fishing around for the cell phone in his pockets. The space still smelled like old cheeseburgers and chicken from the last meal he had before he left, just thinking about it made him nauseous.

Casting a glance over at his companion, Sam gestured toward the fridge. "You hungry, boy?" He asked. Marvin shook his head in objection and yawned, he was too tired for eating. Sam frowned in marginal disappointment at the response he was given, casting a glance over at the fridge, he sighed. He could eat later. Flopping down onto the couch, Sam regarded the nokia cell phone in his hand as he searched his address book for the desired number. "Bradley, Jet" appeared below, sandwiched between "Bradley, Alan" and "Bradley, Lora".

Clicking on the name, he auto dialed the number and listened to the dial tone. Glancing over to the far left of the "apartment" he regarded the digital clock on the table next to the futon on the floor, the time was exactly 7:29AM. Jet was probably working right now, but it didn't hurt to leave a message to let him know he was back in town. The dial tone rang for a fourth time before there was an overturned click and the chaotic noise from static and city life outside of an open window.

" _Hi, this is Jet. I'm not here right now, so leave it at the beep. …Thanks."_ The recording lingered for a moment, catching the muffled voice of a female Sam vaguely recognized, before the beep finally made itself known. Now what was there to say to a guy he hadn't spoken to in the last two years or so? Despite a strong friendship that practically predated their birth, the eventual rift that developed with age came to be and the two had gone their separate ways.

The subconscious part of Sam's mind liked to blame their fathers - or rather his father - for it; ever since they fought that fateful day almost twenty years ago, their rapport had been rattled. Jet wasn't so quick to confide in him, Sam wasn't terribly keen on doing the same. Jet had all but abandoned his action figures to video games and comic books, leaving him without a companion in the world they'd created for themselves; Sam had gone and found other things to entertain himself with, Jet was content in living in his head.

And it wasn't too much of a difference when they became teenagers, only then with girls in the picture, their excuses for never hanging out as much varied from blonde to redhead, to brunette, until eventually, Jet settled for a French redhead and Sam was content with passing from woman to woman every now and again when he felt like dating. They went to separate colleges, with the only difference being that Jet graduated from his and Sam dropped out of his, content with roaming the world, or chatting with the die-hard Kevin Flynn fans of the Flynn Lives organization whenever he stayed in Los Angeles. When he felt like completing his education, he'd go back.

They kept in touch well enough, certainly enough to allow Jet to live in his father's old arcade/apartment (which he could tell Jet loved more than anything) when he was looking for a play to stay. If they got drunk together (wherever) it was like they were best of buddies once again, but whenever he called, Jet was either preoccupied with Eva, work, or just didn't wanna talk. And it came to the point where Sam began to wonder when Jet had become so anti-social that he kept sporadic contact with everyone except his girlfriend.

What drama queen, he remembered thinking.

Clearing his throat, Sam answered in the silence in the best way he knew how. "Hey, Jet, it's Sam," He began. "Yeah, I know, you haven't heard from me in ages. I just got back into town and I was just wonderin' how things were at the old arcade." _That sounded pretty good,_ he thought, rubbing his chin. "Give me a call sometime, man." Another moment of silence lingered before he finally ended the call.

Tossing the cell phone aside, Sam rose from the couch and headed for the fridge. If he was lucky, the glitchy contraption was still on freeze and none of his food had gone to waste. The last thing he wanted to do was to go shopping on a Friday, supermarkets were decidedly unpleasant on the day before the official start of the weekend. Opening the door, the first thing he noticed was the puddle of water at the bottom of the third shelf; further inspection revealed an odorous smell coming from the side door.

_Oh, no…_

Opening the fridge completely, Sam found what little food he had had defrosted over the entire month he was outta town. The rice had gone bad, his beers were warm, the milk had curdled, the burger meat was done for and worst of all, his ice cream was a bucket of mush overflowing on the top shelf in the freezer. "Damn it," He muttered, shutting the fridge.

This was not something he wanted to deal with right now, not today. It wasn't that he had to worry about a money shortage, he was loaded for the rest of his life, but grocery shopping was such a hassle. Scratching the back of his head, Sam gazed around the living space for something to do.

He hadn't owned a television since living with his grandparents, there never seemed to be anything on and on top of that, children's programs provided little in the entertainment department for him once upon a time. If he ever wanted to watch a movie he'd go see it in the theaters while they were still running, he rarely ever rented anything from any rental services, despite the fact that that he had a computer to watch them on.

Video games were an occasional guilty pleasure he delved in when he felt like mashing buttons, but the consoles and titles collected more dust than they were used (as he almost never felt like dragging them over to Jet's place). The last game he remembered playing was something Elfwood studios had developed; a turn based RPG that looked a little more inspired by _Final Fantasy_ than he was betting anyone working there would be willing to admit. If they ever got sued, he certainly hoped Jet had nothing to do with that particular game.

Presently distracted by his own thoughts, Sam didn't notice Marvin climb from out of the groove of his bed and hop onto the couch. The dog trotted over to Sam's discarded phone and studied the object for a moment before hitting what he figured was the "call" button. The cell phone redialed the last number called, Marv sat down and watched the light on the screen flash on and off with anticipation. A moment later the unfamiliar voice of the person Sam had been taking to rattled low over the speaker. Marv barked excitedly at the phone, pawing the pad in elation.

At least until Sam spotted him.

"Marv, get off the phone!" His friend hurried over to the couch and snatched the cell phone from off the cushions. Marv, for all his stature, looked a little put off by the sudden repossession of his favorite toy. Sam ended the call with an exasperated sigh, he couldn't understand for the life of him why Marv liked to play with the phones.

The workers at the shelter he got him from said the precocious dog loved to play with buttons and things that flashed, but Sam figured he would've grown out of it after almost two years of living with him. Marv barked indignantly at him, walking about in a circle on the right cushion.

"Marv, we don't play with cell phones, alright?" He admonished softly. "What if you called the cops? How was I gonna explain to them that my dog called them for no good reason?"

Marv made no move to respond to that question on any level. Letting out a whine, he hopped down from the couch and headed back over to his bed. Sam huffed in exasperation as he stuffed his phone into his pocket. There was nothing around here that needed to be meddled with and he had all the time in the world to go shopping for a new fridge and food to boot. "Hey, Marv, wanna go shopping?"

Marvin barked in the negative.

He sighed, it looked like he was going shopping alone. "Well, don't eat any of the furniture while I'm gone," Sam muttered as he headed toward the garage door.

* * *

Jet yawned for what felt like the sixth time as Eva's Volvo came to a halt at the red light, raising his glasses from his nose he rubbed his right eye and yawned again. Eva sent him a sideways glance and a lopsided grin. "You're still tired? Even after all that coffee?" She asked. Jet grumbled something under his breath as he fished around his pockets for a peppermint.

Damn right he was still beat, not even the coffee seemed to be stimulating his situational awareness like it normally did. "Thorne's running my ass into the ground," He muttered, scrubbing his face. "He doesn't think we're going to make the schedule and I'm not helping matters by sleeping in all the time." Eva let out a coo of sympathy for her boyfriend; she reached over and scratched the back of his neck as if he were dog in need of comfort. He leaned into her touch with a sigh. "I'm sure you'll get the game done in time," She assured.

"Maybe, maybe not," Jet mumbled. He rolled down the window to let in some of the morning air, congested with exhaust fumes and God-knows-what-else, Eva's perfume was choking him. He'd barely gotten any thing down for breakfast before he forced himself to leave the comfort of his home and follow Eva out to her car before she ditched him, which was something she was notorious for doing when she wanted to leave for work and he was lollygagging.

"What've you got on the schedule today? FCon still trying to convince ENCOM to enter into an advantageous marriage?"

"Yes," She replied with a smile. "In fact, I go now to see ENCOM's biggest shareholder."

Jet chuckled. "You're not talking about Sam, are you?"

"Yes, that's the one. Samuel Flynn," Eva replied. Jet chuckled again as he raised his arms above his head and placed his hands behind him. "Yeah, well, good luck, I guess," He yawned for the ninth time.

"And why is that, Jethro?"

"Don't call me Jethro."

"And why is that, _Jet?_ "

"Well, if I know Sam, he's not gonna say yes. If anything, he's gonna say no and then kick ya off his property. But hey-" Jet placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "-best of luck to ya, I know you'll knock 'em dead with your presentation at least." He grinned at her looking like a very condescending Cheshire cat.

"You're hilarious, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

Eva rolled her eyes at her boyfriend's confidence on the matter, never noticing the rider on the Ducati that drove past the car as the light turned green.

* * *

**(TBC)**


	9. Seven: Let Me Know

For all it's prestige, Elfwood Studios was probably the smallest (or rather, shortest) building in the business distract of downtown Los Angeles. The success of their last game, _Kimi_ , allowed to expand their workspace a little more, and the pay raise certainly nice as well. Prior to that, however, Jet remembered how small his cubical had been and often wondered how his own father worked in such a confined space during his time a programmer at ENCOM. He couldn't count how many times his legs wanted to kick out the walls that surrounded him. It was the only time he could resent being over six feet tall.

Readjusting the volume on his iPod, Jet shut the passenger side door of Eva's car and gave her a distracted wave of the hand. "I'll see you later," He muttered, barely over the roar of the morning traffic. There was no immediate response from Eva, who seemed content with silence, when she reached out to grab his wrist. Jet didn't fight against her when she pulled him back against the passenger door; instead, he turned to face her and grinned.

"I don't have time for this, Eva," He said. Eva shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, fixing him with her own imitation of a grin. Unbuckling herself, she crawled across the passenger's seat and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. "You always have time for me," She said. She returned to her position in the driver's side, a self-satisfied smile on her face. Jet pulled out of the window of the car as it started up. Blowing him a kiss, Eva fastened her seatbelt and drove back into the flow of traffic.

Regrouping, Jet rushed toward the building in a hurry, knowing for sure the tongue-lashing he was going to get would be unpleasant. J.D. Thorne, his boss, was no one to kid around with; he was fair enough with his employees, but never one to be taken advantage of. In his case, Thorne was far less lenient with him because of who his father was. The man had taken the impression that because Alan had been head of the powerhouse that was once ENCOM (because Jet could hardly consider it such now, regardless of the money they were making), that Jet figured he could twiddle his thumbs in his cubical.

He made it clear as day that if he started showing-off like a "spoiled brat", it was out the door and without a job for him. Jet took the warning with all its intended weight and made sure to keep himself busy with whatever project he was working on. Jet made it a point to prove Thorne wrong at every turn and managed to maintain his workaholic state of impression for the last decade and a half. However, lately, even he began to notice a slip in his ethic and he wasn't terribly surprised to realize Eva was apart of the problem.

"You're so late, Johnny boy," It was the first thing Jet heard after the "oohs" and "awws" thrown at him in jest from the entire work force in the office. Annie, his assistant, was always one for picking on him. Maybe it was because she liked him or maybe it was because she wanted his position as head developer; she certainly had all it took to replace him. Knowing better than to frown, Jet offered them all the single-finger salute and continued down the narrow path toward the head office, the dragon's lair. Jet could practically feel the eyes of his co-workers on his back when he knocked twice on the door; his skin began to tingle in irritation.

Jet watched Thorne through the slits of the half-open blinds, the light in the room seemed to grow dim when man looked up from his desk and directly at him. "Come in," Was all he said and Jet pretended not to hear the sniggers of amusement from the other side of the room. _What are you guys, twelve?_ Turning the knob, Jet stepped inside the room immediately and shut the door. J.D regarded the youth with a steely gaze, the frown on his face was hidden by his intertwined hands, leaving Jet to wonder whether or not the man had shaved the slit of hair he called a mustache from his upper-lip.

Self-consciously, Jet adjusted his glasses and stroked his goatee in mock contemplation.

"You wanted to speak with me, boss?" He asked. J.D nodded, his hands fell away from his face, revealing the catfish mustache was still present on above his lips. The atmosphere of anxiety cooled slightly as Jet continued to observe the face of his employer, who seemed none-the-wiser that his focus was specifically on his mustache. _Must reframe from laughing,_ Jet thought to himself, biting the inside of his cheek. "No, I want you here on time to work," Thorne replied hotly, reaching for the pack of gum sitting on the edge of his desk. "This is what? The third time you've been late now?"

"Second, actually," Jet corrected. "The second in two weeks."

"Are we having problems that I should know about, or are you just being a lazy ass?"

There were two ways a man could answer that kind of question. The first would be to act like the smartass he never had proper control of and hit his boss with a remark that would get him fired on the spot. The second would be placate him with an answer that would make him no happy than he already was, but would at least keep him in a merciful mood. There was a third option, but Jet didn't see how telling Thorne could work to his benefit. If anything, that would probably get him thrown into the nuthouse for all eternity. He could just imagine his father shaking his head with shame and his mother crying in the background, dressed in black, heartbroken her son was deemed a loony. _Really, Jet, where do you come up with this stuff? Stay on topic, please._

"If it's any consolation to you-"

"It's not, trust me, Bradley."

"-My girlfriend has been coming over every night for the past two weeks and wearing me out and… you know how that goes," Jet finished. He just had to pick option one, didn't he? Thorne regarded him with an expression that could only be described as murderous, the catfish mustache was suddenly very becoming of him. "You say anything that comes to mind, don't you?"

"Only when I'm anxious, sir," Jet replied in kind. Thorne gave the young man a sly smile, leaning back in his chair he gave Jet a once over, grinding his teeth in the process. "Bradley, we're six months away from debuting with a game that could put us at the top of food-chain, one that would certainly give you the kind of notoriety of your dear father-"

"Sir, why do you always assume that I want be my father?" Jet inquired in exasperation, knowing his question would go unanswered.

"-And your jerking off with your girlfriend like you've got all the time in the work get this thing right?" Thorne's gaze narrowed. "It's simply unacceptable. I hired you under the recommendation of FCon's CEO, Dillinger. The man seemed to think you made of better stuff than your father, that you would be a benefit to this company."

"And haven't I been?"

"In the last year? Yes, you have, but I'm talking about the here and now, son," Thorne mashed on the gum in his mouth like a guillotine with a dull blade; Jet could imagine he was trying to lob his head off with no success because of his past endeavors for the company. "If you don't get your head together, right now, you're off this project and out the door. And believe you me when I say, "I'll make sure you won't get job in another company unless it's for a janitorial position". Comprende?"

"Absolutely, sir," Jet deadpanned, lips twitching.

J.D fixed him a look. "Are you bullshitting me, boy?"

"Absolutely not, boss. I don't bullshit unless-"

"Don't finish that sentence if you value your job. Get to work!" Jet reframed from all verbal and physical mocking gestures and headed out of the office. Once he was outside, he ignored the snickers of his fellow colleges and headed for his office. Thorne might've been a fair guy, but there were times he could be a complete and insufferable asshole, especially when he was in the right.

Setting down in front of his desk, Jet prepared to grind away his frustrations on the computer when a rolled magazine tapped the top of his head; knowing who it was, Jet waved him off. The figure hovering on the other side of the desk hardly seemed bothered by the nonverbal dismissal, not a moment passed before the magazine tapped his head again. This time, Jet glanced up at the man bothering him. "Stuff it, Costa, I'm not in the mood," He muttered.

Nick Costa shrugged his shoulders. "Eh, lighten up, Bradley," He chuckled, pushing his sunglasses back into position atop his head. "It's not the end of the world, ya know?"

Jet huffed in objection. "Where are we so far, Costa?"

"Well, Annie says we've got to address the glitches that keep popping up on level eight; you know, when the party enters dungeon and the entire layout vanishes?"

"Uh-huh," He muttered.

"Then there's the boss battle. The damn program, Mogarth, keeps pulling a SMK on us and killing the group in the first hit."

"Jeez, it's still doing that? Who was lead programmer on that level?"

"Olivia Munn," Nick replied. "Believe me, I think she's doing it on purpose." Jet let out an exasperated sigh. This was not the time where he wanted to deal with bitter exes and their petty rivalries.

"There's also an issue with the sixteenth chapter's screenplay."

"How so?"

"No one's rewritten yet."

"Well, that's just great. Is there any good news to hear?"

"Well, uh, we completed the first three levels yesterday."

Jet groaned and rested his forehead against the computer screen.

* * *

Sam was beginning to wonder if he should've followed Marvin's lead and just stayed home. He could've been eating pizza ordered from Pizza Hut or Dominos, but instead he was making the effort of reoccupying his fridge with perishable goods he'd probably never get around to eating because of his perchance for takeout.

Dad had never been terribly practiced about going shopping for groceries, especially when Sam hit the big number seven. If they were hungry, Flynn was always asking if he wanted pizza, Chinese or something from Wendy's.

He remembered Alan chastising his friend over the "poor eating habits" he was teaching his son, often citing what he and Lora fed Jet as an example of what to feed a child, so as not to stunt his growth. In his youth, Sam never appreciated Alan's busy-bodying in regard to what he ate, but when it became evident that Flynn took his friend's advice to heart, there wasn't much he could about it. Getting re-accustomed to vegetables and fruits was probably one of the hardest things Sam ever did as a kid, but it did benefit him in the end if his present physique was anything to go by.

Standing in the frozen foods isle, he scanned the list of milks provided on the shelf, hoping to find the brand he usually bought. "I don't know how people do this," He muttered to himself, pulling at the loose strings on his hoodie. Grabbing three bottles of milk, Sam tossed them into the cart and made a hasty exit from the frozen foods isle into the cereal section. If he was lucky, they would still have the family sized box of Cheerios on sale.

He moved down the path out of the frozen foods isle with the usual reckless abandon used on his motorcycle, enjoying the movement of the wheels as he pushed the cart across the smooth title floor. He was so engrossed in watching the wheels ahead of him spin that he never saw the other cart until the distinctly feminine scream startled him out of his daydream.

The end of his cart collided with the side of the other, sending what little groceries he had sliding forward. The contents of the woman's cart on the other hand, overfull with a variety of foods, went tumbling down onto the ground. Sam stood frozen in his place for a moment, watching the chaos unfold as the woman spat profanities at her predicament and backpedaled out of the path of his cart. "Stupid kid," He heard her snap as she struggled to kneel down to pick up her things.

Sam swallowed his tongue as he backed away from the incident, parking his cart off to the side, he joined the woman on the ground. "I'm - I'm really sorry about all of this, ma'am," Sam managed to say, grabbing a box of baby formula. "I didn't see you." The woman shot him a sideways glance, clearly not buying a word of his apology. "Sure you didn't," She muttered, grabbing up two cans of spinach.

 _I really didn't,_ he thought. Sam chose not escalate the situation further by reaffirming his apology, instead he grabbed a few more boxes off the ground and made short work of the rest while the woman busied herself the canned goods. She stood up with disgruntled huff and dumped the cans back into her cart. Sam gave her enough space to recollect herself, wondering if he should make himself scarce. After a moment, the woman looked up from the ground and flashed him a half-pleasant smile. "Sorry if I snapped," She pointed to her rounded stomach. "Hormones."

Sam regarded the misshapen part of her body with mild interest, she did a little more than snap at him. He shrugged his shoulders, awkwardness beginning to settle into his manner. "It's no problem, I'll-"

"Watch where you're going next time," The woman finished for him. Sam nodded again, an uneasy chuckle escaping him. When the woman didn't move from her spot, Sam took it as a cue to leave. Grabbing the handles of his cart, he beat a hasty retreat from the woman, firmly convinced he should've stayed at home and ordered a pizza.

* * *

Lora Bradley wasn't one to interfere with matters that didn't concern her, let alone escalate pre-existing problems. However, when Alan called her away from her work on the revamped digitizing technology at JPL, she knew it was important - or at the very least, she hoped it was important. Sitting by herself in a coffee shop, looking as if she'd been stood up by her date wasn't exactly the type of image she wanted to be projecting to a group of strangers who threw occasional glances in her direction.

"Sorry, I'm late," Alan's voice startled her to attention, she managed a small smile at the sight of her husband approaching the table. "Lunch traffic." Fiddling with her turquoise necklace, Lora waved his apology off. "It's alright, I know you wouldn't keep me waiting on purpose. What's the matter?" Alan sat on the opposite side of the table, readjusting his trench coat accordingly; he sat his pager on the table.

Lora regarded the pager for a moment, the memory of the contraption's prominence early in the eighties and nineties came rushing back like flood. Why did Alan still use the thing? Alan pointed to the pager. "Jet's still sending me pages," He said. "This one says 'SOS: FA ASAP'." Lora stared down at the pager in curiosity at the message; three abbreviations, two of which she knew, the other was a little trickier unless it meant the obvious. "Flynn's Arcade?" She said after a moment.

Alan nodded. "Yeah, I think that's what "FA" stands for," Alan replied. "And the odd thing of it is that he's paging me from the old number of the arcade. I thought he'd disconnected it?" Lora shook her head in mild amusement, Jet, for all his posturing, was still relatively keen to get his father's attention as much as he did as a kid. "Maybe he didn't, maybe he's using it as a second line."

"To play pranks?" Alan was incredulous.

Lora shrugged her shoulders. "Not necessarily, Alan," She said. "You remember Flynn used to do the same thing with his own phone lines, right?" The indignant expression on her husband's face was more than answer for her. In the aftermath of Jet's birth, Alan was more than a little high strung, treating her and their son as if they were made of lightweight glass. Therefore, Flynn's bright idea was to page Alan with false messages to get his partner to calm down, but it only seemed to work Alan up into a tighter knot. Flynn's insensitive pranks lasted until he found out Jordon was pregnant with Sam, and then it was a different ball game. _Served him right,_ Alan thought warily.

"He could be using one line for work, the other for everyday calls," Lora suggested. Alan shrugged his shoulders, it was possible, but it didn't make him any more (or less) amused by his son's antics. For a boy who was desperate to grow up, he fell back into the role of adolescence like it was second nature. He could blame Flynn's influence for his son's behavior, but it seemed wrong at this point in life. "I still don't like it," He murmured.

Lora smiled. "I don't expect you would," She said. "But, I'll try and give him a call, ask him to stop. Alright?" Alan nodded, keeping his doubt that Jet would stop to himself. The entire ordeal had started sometime after he answered a call that came directly from Flynn's Arcade, barely two minutes before he had to leave for "work" at ENCOM.

There had been no one on the other line, leading Alan to suspect Jet was fooling around with him. His son's foolhardy behavior continued through the morning straight into the afternoon with messages to pager, which lead to more than just a few odd looks directed at him from the board members. He left work once to visit the Arcade, but there'd been no one home, something that puzzled him greatly. A call to Elfwood Studios let him know Jet was a work and would "talk to him later". That was all fine and well, but how was he paging him at the Arcade and he was at work?

"You know next month is anniversary of Flynn's… _disappearance_ ," Lora said, a strangely even tone. Now there was a subject he didn't like to talk about, nevermind how it followed him wherever he went. Toying with one of the saltshakers, Alan managed a small nod of his head. "That it is," He said. "What about it?"

"Well, what does ENCOM's conquistador plan doing to celebrate the occasion?" She asked, the ghost of a forlorn expression gracing her features. By "conquistador", Lora was referring to Richard Mackey, ENCOM's current Chairman of the Board and show dog for the board of directors. While the company was making more many they ever had during Flynn's disappearance and his short-lived control, Alan thought Mackey was the worst thing to happen to ENCOM.

And the biggest blunder had to be Mackey putting himself in league with Dillinger's son, Edward junior, who was responsible for most of the ideas not connected to making a buck off Flynn's old games or unused concepts (an idea he wholly objected to). The young man wasn't necessarily as arrogant or off-putting as his father, but there was something his stark personality and willingness to sacrifice creativity for profit, that set Alan's teeth on edge. Put simply, Edward was like a pair of nails on a chalkboard. He took credit for things he had no business claiming credit for to begin with and was more than glad to play the sideman for Mackey. What did they plan on doing for the anniversary of Kevin's Flynn's disappearance? "Their releasing a DLC for their game, _"Ruler of the Galaxy, Gingaioh"_. It'll cost about $20.00 for anyone who isn't subscribed to their website, LegacyofFlynn dot com and $15.00 for subscribers."

Lora grimaced. "Ouch, that's a bit much, isn't it?"

"Not to them, especially when they know their customers will pay for it," Alan replied.

"What about the rumors about the merger with FCon? Any truth to that?"

Alan blinked, puzzled by the question. "Merger? Where'd you hear something like that?" Especially since it was the first time he was hearing about. Lora shrugged her shoulders, her finger trailed the edge of her coffee cup in idle refection. "Jet has a tendency to talk a little much when he nervous about something," She replied. _Particularly if he thinks, the message he's conveying will get to the right person._ Alan's brow furrowed. "Where'd Jet hear it?"

Lora gave her husband a look as if to say the answer was an obvious one and it was. _Eva_ , of course. He sighed, the boy was practically apart of the web that Eva Popoff had chosen to wrap herself in. Alan let out an exasperated breath. This was not something he'd wanted to hear, but was grateful he had been told all the same. "If Mackey knows any better, he'll stay far away from FCon," Alan leaned back in the seat, a dejected.


	10. Eight: Cut into your Intentions

Future Control Industries (otherwise known as F-Con) was the brainchild of former senior executive president of ENCOM, Edward Dillinger. Founded in 1998, rumor had it that the idea for the company came to the man during his thirteen year stay in prison after being exposed for a fraud and stripped of his position at ENCOM.

In retrospect, it wasn't surprising, really, for the company, like ENCOM, focused primarily on developing games and applications for varying platforms. For the most part, FCon enjoyed a moderate success, sales rising far above that of ENCOM during said company's decline after the change of hands from Alan Bradley to Richard Mackey. The man behind the wheel of FCon's drive had a reputation in the electronics world that was typically seen as unsavory or underhanded, but no one could deny that FCon's steady rise to power was an impressive (and legitimate) one, fueled either by Dillinger's resentment of Kevin Flynn or his desire to hire the best in the industry.

Eva Popoff had applied for an internship at the FCon during the beginning of her senior year at CSU, excited at the prospect of working with Edward Dillinger Sr. Her friends, Esmond Baza and Seth Crown III, had found their place at Dillinger's side as executives for his programming and legal divisions. Esmond was a programmer, not unlike Jet, but of different level of skill altogether. She'd go as far as saying he was better were it not for the fact Jet could play havoc with just about any OS and never get caught. Esmond, for the most part, wasn't the jealous type when it came to acknowledging the idea that there were others better than him out there, but whatever reason, he absolutely detested Jet and he'd never met the man. Seth, a Harvard student of the highest caliber, she learned a lot from him, particularly how to deal with the more vicious aspects of cooperate businesses.

When she'd met Dillinger, he could only be described with one word: shrewd. Dillinger, whatever his reasoning, seemed to harbor a strong resentment for anyone under the age of forty, deeming them scheming and underhanded snots that'd sooner cut your throat then telegraph a hit (nevermind it was pot calling the kettle black). Yet, he acknowledged they were invaluable to the function of his business.

If Eva had been anyone else, his misdirected hatred for youth might've stung, wounded her even, but she wasn't just anyone. Popoff had spent the better part of her life putting up with the misconceptions of her personality, she wasn't about to go running from the office because some geezer was sore over what happened to him over half a decade or so ago. Upon graduating from CSU and earning her doctorate, she was eventually hired by Dillinger. She worked her way up the ladder to becoming one of his executives, specializing primarily Human Resources or Seth's go-between with business deals.

One business deal in particular was the hopeful merge between FCon and ENCOM. When she had met Jet, she'd still been in college and had no particular interest in ENCOM. However, upon rising in the hierarchy of Future Control Industries, she presented with the chance to proposition ENCOM with the merger proposal, the definition of their relationship took on a different meaning altogether. It was suddenly a viable option to use him in some manner if need be, but only if.

With Ed Dillinger Jr. well adjusted in the position as COO of ENCOM next to Mackey's CEO, the plan didn't seem able to fail, not when they were playing both sides of the board without major opposition. Alan Bradley was unaware of the ordeal, Jet was aware of it but she didn't see him telling his father (or mother) about it as he never appeared terribly attached to the company.

The only real hurdle she had to leap was Sam, Kevin Flynn's son. Reclusive and rarely in the public eye, Eva had no idea how to gauge his position on the company's future. To be sure, Mackey had enough stories predating Flynn Jr's adulthood about several deals ruined by Sam's yearly pranks, but the most she could tell from that was he disliked Mackey's brand of business.

"Sam Flynn is a non-event as far as I'm concerned," Ed Jr. said to her the day before. "He sits around in a shipping container living in the past and conspiring with extremists. Unless you plan on having the deal occur on his father's D-day, I doubt he'll be any trouble."

From that description Ed made the boy sound like someone she could easily persuade into dealing with her, but Jet's flamboyant and rather amusing stories of their youth and young adulthood painted him another light entirely (argumentve, short-tempered, smart and friendly if he knew you personally). The short-lived conversation in the car alone let her know Jet didn't think Sam would take the idea of a merger terribly well, inspiring her to double check her purse for pepper spray.

Staring down at the worn photograph of a young man standing in front of shipping container turned house, Eva glanced up at the structure to double check if she was in the right place. Jet had written the directions to the location on the back of the photograph last night. The looming Dumont shipping container's door was closed, the motorcycle featured the picture was absent, yet she could clearly see a small dog running around in the distance, chasing its shadow.

This was indeed the address of Sam Flynn, but Sam wasn't home.

Eva readjusted her sunglasses as she stuck her out of the window of her car, the environment reeked of old oil and bay water she hated that smell. The dizzy-dog stopped the pursuit of his tail to watch her, he barked in objection to her presence; Eva glared at the animal over her sunglasses.

Rolling the car window up, she raised the cell phone to her ear. "He's not here."

" _What do you mean he's not there?"_ The irritation in Seth's voice rang loud and clear on the other end.

Eva rolled her eyes, undaunted by the accusatory tone in his voice. "I mean, the shabby excuse he calls a house is empty, there's a beagle of some sort running around on a chain, there is no sign of Flynn," She clarified. "He is not on the premises."

" _Well, he could've stepped out for a moment,"_ Desmond's voice entered the conversation. _"Have you even gotten out of the car?"_

She glared at the phone in the reflection of the rearview mirror as if it and not Desmond had asked the stupid question. "There is a rabid little dog staring at me, I'm not getting out of the car," She told him.

" _Unless the dog is foaming the mouth-"_

"Seth, I can tell you, the man is not here," Eva practically hissed. "We should simply move forward with the plan-"

" _And get caught unawares by Flynn? I don't think so, Popoff. Dillinger is willing to go through with this proposal the legal way and I'm not about to-"_

"But he doesn't need to, not in the strictest sense anyways," Eva sighed, playing with a stray red curl. "I have it on good authority that we can get around Sam Flynn without even speaking to him." There was a lengthy pause on Seth and Desmond's end, Eva continued to play with her hair as she waited for them to process the information, information they should've known already.

" _Whose authority would that be?"_ Seth asked.

"A friend," Was all Eva would say.

" _And if we were found out as the culprits behind this little charade?"_ Esmond inquired.

"Oh, they'd undoubtedly know it was us, but if things go our way, Sam Flynn won't even realize what happened until it was too late to do anything," Eva offered. "You're the cooperate lawyer, Seth, this is perfectly in the green isn't it?"

" _Calling a special meeting in which we know Mr. Flynn cannot attend and make appear as though he simply is unable to be reached when the deal is made?"_

"Something like that, yes," Eva remarked dryly.

" _I'd say so, yes. There's a little more to than that, but I believe it's doable,"_ Seth finished.

" _It's not a wise idea, in my opinion,"_ Desmond butted in.

"Baza, if I want your opinion on "wise decisions", I would've asked you and not Seth," Eva smiled.

* * *

"Home again, home again."

Tired did not begin to describe how Jet was feeling when he returned home. Work had progressed in a blur; conversations, mini-meetings and micromanaging were vague memories clipped by cliff notes of the more important details mentioned in regards to _"Kami"_ , the name of their work-in-progress (apparently, Costa intended it on being a "spiritual sequel" to _Kimi_ and forgot to mention it to him).

If he managed to remember any of the events that transpired today, he'd be wholly impressed with himself in the morning. Shutting the doors to the building, he took a moment to the regard the glowing neon "TRON" sign hanging over the arcade console. The first floor had been filled with personal affects and everyday items gained over the years.

He still had the desks in the corner on each side of the doorway on the left, the far right was littered with computer parts and stacks of paper he'd been meaning to go through, the walls were decorated with old or discarded sketches and doodles of characters that never quite made it into the finished product of several games.

Sam had put most of the arcade systems (and his father's belongings) into storage. He didn't see a reason for them lingering in what would become a full-fledged living space for someone else. Out of a mere request, he left Jet _Space Paranoids, Vice Squad, Derezzed_ , _Light Cycles_ and, of course, _TRON._

Three of the five were situated underneath the stairs, wrapped in tarp, _Light Cycles_ and _TRON_ remained out in the open for his personal amusement (or mental torment, whichever Eva figured his mood settled on). _TRON_ stood front and center, aligned with the apartment's entrance, _Light Cycles_ was situated in the room to the left, the former arcade space turned kitchen. Running a hand through his spiky hair, Jet proceeded toward the TRON console. Eva wouldn't be back until later that night, maybe not even until tomorrow. This seemed like as good a time as any check up on things in the Bat Cave.

The discovery had been completely accidental, part of him wondered how no one prior to his moving in ever noticed it. _Hell, why didn't he notice it?_ The one night he'd chosen to play a game of TRON vs. the MCP is when he realized the quarters he continuously slipped into the slot were clattering helplessly on the floor at the tip of his shoes, yet he didn't think to wake himself up long enough to notice it until one of the quarters dropped onto his sneaker.

It took a moment to realize that none of the quarters had entered their designated slot and were in fact pooled around his feet. It took even longer to notice the fine grooves in the concrete floor that'd been made over a period of time. Pushing the quarters out of the way, he kneeled before the faux-game console, fingers searching around its person for a lever or obvious opening to work around. Pulling the console away from the wall resulted in the discovery of a door that, for all intents and purposes, invoked the scene from the _Temple of Doom_ , only infinitely cooler.

His reaction to what resided behind the door was less subtle than his initial open-mouthed surprise of the secret door. To put it simply, he pretended not to jump around like an excitable seven year old one moment and cry the next.

Sam was gonna freak when he saw this place.

Traveling down the former dust encrusted stairs down into the dimly-lit basement of Flynn's Arcade, Jet reflected on the seemingly endless hours he spent playing housekeeper, sweeping or washing the claustrophobic room of the years of accumulated dust and grime, popping pills for sinus headaches and so forth. The doors of the arcade had been locked, the windows covered up. If he didn't have a cell phone or two phone lines, he was sure everyone would've thought he'd packed his bags and left town.

He literally had a take a day off from cleaning to allow his mother in. Lora Bradley didn't take no for an answer, but once he managed to shoo her off about her merry, Jet returned to cleaning the cramped room until it was unrecognizable as the dusty heap he'd once discovered.

Flopping down onto the office chair, Jet turned once and tapped the touchpad keyboard as he came to face the table. When he found it, the estimated time it logged in was approximately 28:9:18:13:20 and counting. Jet boggled over the estimate, impressed that a machine this old had been running for God-knows-how-long beneath the arcade, albeit in standby mode, its power low enough that it hadn't overheated for all the time it'd been on.

"Uncle Flynn must've been in a hurry when he left," Jet murmured to himself. And for all his childhood denial, that was how he'd begun to see the "disappearance" of Kevin Flynn; a hurry to exit stage left. Coupled with the obvious mental instability he suffered after the death of his wife and his so called trip into the ENCOM mainframe, it was a stretch to believe the man drove himself off a cliff into some random ocean. Granted, he'd never say that to Sam, but that's what he believed. The screen flickered to life, random files flashed across the screen as they closed and opened themselves before finally revealing a stark black desktop with a few folders dubbed with random numbers. " _Welcome back, Clarence,"_ The melodic voice that filtered out overhead brought a smile to his face as he rubbed his hands together. "Good to be back, Ma3a. How are things in the 'ol SF1282?"

 _Automated voices are so much fun_ , he thought to himself.

* * *

**(TBC)**


	11. Nine: Which fate is his Master?

Clarence wasn't like the other sprites that populated this strange and oppressed system. For starters the majority of them had simple scripting, there was hardly any variety or individuality in the color coding and they all stared at him strangely as if he wasn't using the hidden function in his subroutine. Tall, red eyed and long eared, Clarence was what he believed to be a picture of complexity. It wasn't his fault they were so basic in their programming; not everyone could pull of the ears, or the vest.

His User was so smart.

Rolling the cigar between his teeth, Clarence took a moment to look upon the degraded city of TRON as the masses fanned out around the center of the park. Every time he was brought back into the system by his user, his location was the never the same. The respawn system worked on variables, there were an infinite number of areas he could be dropped into, which made his chances of finding Ma3a as great as they were slim.

That was his directive, to find the automated voice that had chosen to communicate with his User since his first upload. However, as he was not apart of the system, tracking who appeared to be the head program of the system was a trigger for the Intrusion Countermeasure Programs, who monitored the incoming and outgoing traffic into the system.

From one close encounter, Clarence had decided the ICPs were worse than Clu's elite Guard; while both ran on the same ruthless directive, ICPs carried out their tasks without error and were less susceptible to scramble attacks from a Rod or a simple bump on the head. As far as the ICPs were concerned, he was a virus, an intruder in their seemingly fair system.

He could feel the system lock onto his PID signature, his ears pressed themselves against his head as he watched the blue circuitry running through the concrete layout gradually become red and the crowd began to thin out and venture into their vehicles or the surrounding buildings. Where was that low-density excuse for a program? If Byte didn't get here soon-

 _(Alright, you know what to do Clarence, get a move on)_ Clarence's ears perked up at the command and he made a break for the densest part of the crowd as the security stations around the fountain he once stood next to activated and rezzed the first line of defense from the system. In a situation like this, running on all fours was a crucial part of why he remained free of the city's control. The sudden and panicked clamor of the crowd behind him told him they were hot on his trail, or at the very least, headed in his general direction.

Bearing his claws, he ripped into the ground and propelled himself forward with all the strength of his function, paying no mind to the innocent bystanders that were in his way. Making a hard right, he disappeared into the alleyway, rising to a standing position. The alleyway was narrow, there was an enough space between the two buildings to use to propel him up to the rooftops, but there wasn't enough time between building the momentum needed and actually reaching the top of the building to avoid being seen.

"In here, program," The sterilize command caused his ears to stand completely upright, eyes wide, Clarence zoomed in on the origin of the voice with little difficulty. A small, fluxing shape hovered between the threshold of a doorway located on the far end of the left building, beckoning him forward. Below him was a young Sprite, brown skinned, doe eyed and awkward in his stance, also beckoning him to come to them.

Disregarding the circumstances surrounding the miraculous appearance of his very late friend, Clarence hurried to the end of the alleyway and leapt into the doorway. Byte floated away from the doorway as the Sprite erased the code with a few well placed commands into panel next to him. Silence engulfed the empty warehouse space as they waited for the danger to pass. The thunderous footsteps of the ICPs could be heard as they rushed past their location; Clarence sat on his haunches, ears raised high and eyes narrowed in annoyance at the hovering program as it came toward him.

"It's about time you got here," The fluxing object told him. Clarence glared at Byte, red eyes glowing with irritation.

"I got here? You didn't meet me at the designated location you low-density excuse for a Byte," Clarence rebuked, thumping his foot in objection.

"Designated location? Ha! If you had any brains you'd realize you're still running on the random respawn engine," Byte shot back. "This _is_ the designated location, its lucky you even found it." Clarence prepared counter his friend's argument when there was a loud cough ahead of them.

"Could you guys tone it down a decibel?" Clarence lowered his line of sight from Byte down toward the small program that began to approach them. Given his size (three heads shorter than himself, a veritable 5'4') he couldn't have been any older than 1.9. cycles, most of his circuitry had yet to be completely upgraded to the standardized adult Sprite format. "I might've masked us from the ICPs but doesn't mean they can't still find us," He told them, expression stern. "We don't have a lot of time here."

Clarence shrugged his shoulders and pointed at Byte with all the nonchalance of a User. "Don't blame me, he started it."

"I don't care who started it, quit it all already," The program chided, arms folded across his chest. "It's good that you're here, Clarence, I've heard a lot about you from Byte."

"That's funny, considering I don't a thing about you, program," Clarence deadpanned, raising a leg to scratch a knot from his fur. The program's expression appeared apologetic when he heard that, his gaze raised to Byte who floated down to his shoulder in what Clarence could only assume was a form of comfort or encouragement. _(What is wrong with you, you stupid program? Get moving, find Ma3a);_ His User's command and all the urgency it implied, hit him square in the head, enticing his legs to move. His User had never used that kind language. It wasn't a pleasant sensation in the least to feel what his coding defined as "anger". He could be deleted if he continued resist his programming.

"My sincerest apologies, my name is Beta, I've been sent by the BioKnomes to help you reach Ma3a," He told the rabbit. Clarence felt immediate suspicion toward the program, his nose twitched and his eyes flicked over to Byte who remained on his shoulder under the impression that nothing wrong had occurred. For as long as Clarence had been slinking about the system, he'd never heard of the BioKnomes and it made even less sense for Ma3a to send someone beyond Byte to come looking for him. Something wasn't right here. "Is that right?"

"It's true, I was there when he received the request from the Administrator," Byte attempted to vouch for the small program. At Clarence's persisting skeptic expression, Beta stepped forward and tapped center of his arm, determined to have him believe him. The lightsuit began to disintegrate, pulling away from his bare coding on his right arm to reveal a symbol, a hexagon, his User's insignia.

The surprise on the rabbit's face was apparent, Beta watched as Clarence rose to stand on his paws, hesitation lingering in his expression. "I know it's hard to believe, you've got as much reason to trust me as you do a Virus, but believe me when I say Ma3a really did send me," Beta said. "She has a message for your user-"

"A message for my User?" Clarence repeated.

Beta nodded. "Yes, it's about system upgrades he's been making to SF1282."

"What about them? My User's done nothing wrong," Clarence said, becoming defensive. How dare they imply that his User had committed some kind of crime. Whatever it was, he was sure they were wrong, but it made him angry enough to crash a system. The updates his User had been administrating to the system had done nothing but good, particularly in concerns to processing speed - something he appreciated as it allowed him to complete tasks as the allotted time.

"At first, the Administrator didn't think so either," Byte clarified, butting into the conversation. "However, there's still the issue with Clu-"

"Who's Clu?"

"The co-administrator of the system, arguably the Sprite in power," Beta interjected. "He wishes to-"

A malicious red fist smashed through the wall that once housed the invisible doorway, causing all three programs within the confines of the once-safe place to jump. The fist retracted as several others came through the code, in its place was a narrow and expressionless face that glowered at them. "Freeze program!" It said. Beta's words sputtered dead on his lips at sight of the wall crumbling down before them, they were sure to be derezzed if they were caught!

"I think its time we get out of here!" Clarence didn't wait for the others to agree with him, he took off running all fours, ears pressed against his head. Above him he could see Byte rocketing past the likes himself and Beta, who struggled to keep up with the two as he ran from the invading ICPs. "H-hey, I said freeze program!" The indignant ICP bellowed as he began to pursue the fleeing programs.

Clarence bore his feet down into the ground and launched himself through the air toward the ground level window at the end of the room. The glass crumbled around him like paper, he rolled across the dirty alleyway like a rag doll before crashing against the wall. Pain rippled through his shoulders, paralyzing all movement; he watched as the spotlights of the Recognizers began converge on the alleyway, illuminating the grime and degraded coding of its structure.

As he struggled to rise to his feet, he felt an arm wrap around his upper body, effectively pulling him off the ground. "Byte, get out here!" Beta's voice bellowed over the disorientation that was steadily beginning to fall into the background. Clarence watched the little blue program soar overhead, vanishing into the chaos of lights and flashing alarms, out of the reach of the Countermeasure Programs. Before either of them had a chance to move, the ICP's moved surrounded them, closing the gap between them and freedom.

However, Clarence wasn't about to be nullified without a proper fight; he wasn't programmed to go down submissively. "When I give the signal, run," He said. Beta, who currently supported his weight with one arm over his shoulder, gave the rabbit a strange look; how did he expect them escape from this mob? Clu's forces had them outnumbered sixteen to two, the chances of their getting any further than the next block were dreadfully thin. He felt his circuitry dim the closer the Recognizers and the ICP's got. "Clarence-"

"Now!" Clarence pushed away from the unsuspecting Sprite, knocking him over. His actions elicited immediate response from the ICPs, who promptly began tossing their discs and firing their staffs on him. Clarence did his best to avoid their fire as he made a blind dash for the opening between the ICPs below and the Recognizers hovering above. He got as far as the first line of defense before one well aimed blow to his hind leg crippled him. Clarence bit back a cry of pain as his leg gave out in response to the pain, he was sent tumbling down onto the ground in a heap of tangled limbs, body convulsing from the electrical charge racing through his body.

The ICPs converged around him, weapons aimed and at the ready. Clarence didn't dare move as the largest of the ICP's, the one with features recognizable to that of a Sprite, turned its attention toward a video window that appeared behind him. "Illegal program apprehended," The ICP known as Rttask declared to the shadowy figure staring down at him.

" _What about the other two?"_

"Sir, the Byte escaped, we're currently in pursuit of the young Sprite, but he seems to-"

" _Seems to what?"_ The tone of his voice was decidedly cold, cold enough to freeze a system.

"Well, sir, he seems to have hacked into system, he's created a doorway in the street and escaped into the sewers," Rttask answered.

" _Then I suggest you go after him,"_ The shadowy program demanded. " _Send the other program to Kernel to be judged."_

"Yes, sir," Rttask saluted the image as the window disappeared. He turned to regard his programs-in-arms with all the air of authority he could muster, learned from the cycles standing in the shadows of the Kernel. "You herd the admin. A squad will follow me into the sewers after the escapee, the rest of you take the program to the Kernel." The ICP's saluted Rttask in affirmation, breaking ranks. The majority followed Rttask down into craggy hole that been created by Beta, the rest surrounded Clarence and hauled him to his feet. "What until the Kernel gets through with you, program," One of them said to him. "You won't know your zeroes from your ones."

* * *

" _System threat detected via illegal program! "Clarence" has been quarantined."_ Now that was something you didn't hear all the time, especially when your program was the furthest thing from a virus or other malicious software. "Did that-? Oh, come on!" Jet stared down at the panel in front of him, eyes wide and heart racing as he read the diagnostic report unfolding before him. "What the hell, Ma3a? My program wasn't-"

"Clarence _has been designated as Trojan Horse Virus, filename unknown. It has been quarantined,"_ Was the automated voice's response.

"Bullshit, it's not a Trojan!" Jet objected, ignoring the fact that he was arguing with a computer and not a person. "Request access to Jet program's last location."

" _Your request has been denied. Location has been quarantined for infection, Clarence has been-"_

"I get the picture, you stupid machine," Jet kicked the frame of the supercomputer's base and rose from the office chair. Of all the low down dirty things for a computer to pull, it actually had the balls to designate one of his programs as a virus and the stupid thing had been running around in the system for over a year performing system searches. "Something sure isn't the hell right," He muttered to himself as he began to pace.

* * *

Though the passage of time was decidedly different from how it functioned in the real world, it wasn't a concept Kevin truly understood until he was stuck within the system itself. Keeping track of the years and hours was easy enough, the D.A.T. properties files were accessible wherever you happened to be and untraceable despite their hard files being rooted to the Administrative Office. Living through the days and hours, however, was another matter entirely.

Time moved either faster or slower depending on what sector you inhabited. The Outlands were comprised of free, fragmented space from the system, which made the accuracy of time trickier than usual. In real-time, Flynn probably had spent exactly or more than two decades in the supercomputer. In system time, he was sure to have spent a good, 1,260 years or so within the system if his math was right. Everyone he ever knew was bound to be old and gray, or older in the youngest sense of the word and that was probably the worse thing about his predicament.

Sam was only seven years old when he left him, he hadn't barely spent enough time with his son and as if the tricksters hopping about behind the scenes knew this, his program went haywire and trapped him within the system, damn near appropriated him if it hadn't been for the BioKnomes. At the expense of their own soldier's lives, they fended off Clu and lead him safely into the bowls of the Outlands, going further than any program had dare gone before.

They had led him to Quorra and Beta, two programs (one of them an ISO) whom they saved from the inner-city purge and PID repurposing. It was depressing, really, to think how few escaped the utilitarian decrees of Clu's regime - a literal fifteen hundred to the thousands who were lost in the earliest days of the Purging. They formed what was to become the BioKnomes - "Rebels" or "Resistance" to Clu and those unaware of their aims - the meager last stand against the controlled system.

Yet, knowing there were those willing fight against Clu brought no comfort Kevin; he'd missed twenty seven years of his son's life, twenty eight of his godson's. Both of them were bound to have become strapping young men in his absence, Lora and Alan would be gray haired, nearing the latter part of their "winter".

Life moved on without him on the outside while he was trapped inside the computer like a fly in a mason jar, the youthful visage of a thirty four year old man forever the reflection to stare back at him. It wasn't fair, but it was a prison of his own making. So long as Clu kept a watchful eye out for his signature, he couldn't step foot outside the realm of the Outlands without enticing a massive force to come after him.

Pressing himself against the cushion of the _Bandit_ , his eyes wandered over to Quorra who piloted the Lightrunner with all the confidence of a teenager, infallible and ready to conquer any and all obstacles. She turned to meet his gaze, an easy smile spreading across her lips. "Are you alright?" Quorra inquired, eyes steadily switching their attention over to her friend.

Her hands moved effortlessly across the panel next to the steering wheel, the sudden rumble beneath the frame indicated the shocks had shifted, a blinking light on the dashboard let him known that she'd activated the autopilot mechanism.

Knowing he had little to no choice in the matter of answering her, Kevin tried his best to mimic her smile, ignoring how his skin stretched against the show of emotion. "I'm alright, Quorra, just "processing data", if you know what I mean," He sighed. Quorra seemed to contemplate what she believed be a hidden meaning with a play on words, but only for a moment. "You're worried about what was said at the meeting? About the system upgrade?" She asked.

"Yeah, kinda," He replied after a moment.

"Kinda?" Quorra chuckled, folding her arms. "Flynn, the last time you were this quiet, Ma3a had been named primary Administrator of the system. What's bothering you?" Kevin chewed the end his thumb in contemplation, weighing the pros and cons of expressing his troubles to the young program. To be sure, Quorra often listened without preconceived prejudices, even after all the confessions he laid at her feet.

Part of him liked to believe it a function programmed into her code by Ma3a, but the reality of it was more or less contributed by her naivety and general ignorance toward anything outside of the situation that brought them together. Maybe it was better that she didn't know the extent of his guilt, especially in regards to the system upgrades the computer was undergoing. It had started no more than six months ago.

System glitches, freezes and reboots resulted in massive changes that were slowly becoming apparent the more he ventured outside the confines of his safe house. The near pitch-black atmosphere of their environment began to steadily brighten until it resembled less of a world inspired by a dystopian future and more of the world he first ventured into, which irked the amateur architect in him. Regardless, the upgrades had continued on, shifting and changing the landscape as he knew it until recently.

According to Beta, Ma3a was in contact with a User by the name of "Clarence". He or she was responsible for the multitude of changes within the system. Flynn didn't doubt it was the doing of a User, but the question of who the user was a concern of interest for him. It undoubtedly meant his workshop had been found, but who had found it? Was it Sam, Jet, Lora or a complete stranger? Had Sam or Alan sold the property? He wouldn't be able to tell until he got into the Administrative Office and that was a tall order best served next to impossible. There were too many things incumbent on the activities of the User in the real world that would directly impact the order of the world within. What was Clu going to do with the User if he didn't already know of its tampering with the system?

Snapping himself out of his reverie, Kevin shook his head. "It's the system," He said.

"Ah, yes, the upgrades," Quorra gave her friend a knowing smile. "I thought that was problem."

"Nah, it's not so much a problem as it puzzling," Kevin replied. "Neither Clu or Ma3a have said anything about it, but everyone's noticed. If I didn't know any better, I'd say this was their doing."

"But, you know better and-"

"-I know this isn't their handiwork. In fact, I don't know whose handiwork this is, but it's definitely the work of a User," Kevin completed his and her line of though, biting into his finger in frustration. Quorra watched the distress etch itself further into the features of her friend with increased concern. During the meeting, Adobe, their leader, had brought to their attention what everyone had been feeling and experiencing with their own two eyes. The system was changing, portals were opening up in every location since the reactivation of the central portal across the Seneca. Sectors would crash, glitch or end up rewritten and their occupants along with it. The very programs that they fought against were allowing it to happen and they only wonder why. Many looked to Flynn for an answer, a way to set things right before they got worse, but Kevin had no means of doing anything without putting a greater risk to himself and that, in the grand scheme of things, was a very bad idea.

"But, that's a good thing right? A User's found your work space, maybe this means you can escape and erase Clu, right?" Quorra inquired. Flynn shook his head slowly, running a hand through his hair. "You know I can't, Quorra," He sighed, almost in an exasperated tone. "Even if I could, a User doesn't always spell good news. I have no idea who this is and what they intend to do the system. It could be worse than whatever Clu's been doing." At this bit of commentary, Quorra could only raise her eyebrow in disagreement. Mass genocide, corruption, infection and forced repurposing were, as far as she was concerned, the worse crimes any program could commit against another. What on earth could a User do worse than that?

The Lightrunner descended down behind the mountain formations in the usual accordance, exiting out of autopilot long enough for Quorra regain control and pilot the vehicle down to the ground, reengaging the terrain mode. It rolled into the garage with ease, jolting them little as it came to a sudden stop. Quorra hopped out of driver's seat with the usual enthusiasm, albeit noticeably subdued after their conversation. Flynn followed her into the confined space of the lift, relaxing into a slouched stance, while Quorra stood with the usual poise - hands clasped in front of her. They ascended in silence, spent of the desire for conversation and analytical discussion. Kevin watched the ridged wall as it fell below them and gave way to their humble - he stopped, breath caught in his throat.

The safe house had been ransacked, an image of pure chaos. Everything from the shelves to the tables had been overturned or pulled from the walls, items lay scatted across the illuminated ground. In the center of it all was a woman of an alien design. She long and lean, her skin and eyes were a piercing pale blue, hair erect around her head, dreaded and curled like the snakes of Medusa. Her circuitry was complex, illuminated in the same fashion as the floor she stood beneath. "Greetings, programs," She said, tapping her rod against the palm of her hand. "Clu wishes to have a word with you."

In the haze of his shock he heard Quorra's disc snap to life, the glow of its edges burning bright in the corner of his eye. He turned to stare dumbly at Quorra, whose expression had lost all of its naiveté, squashed beneath the hardened expression of anger. "Flynn, go. Run," The young woman hissed.

* * *

Recognizers were cumbersome machines to ride in. Built in the form of a magnet, their maneuverability was undoubtedly challenged by the resistance of the data flow it moved against as opposed to moving with it. They had Lightjets, machines built to maneuver five times better than that of any recognizer, so why continue to use these things? Clarence stared down at his shackled paws in frustration, unfazed by the world moving patiently below him.

Surrounded by sniveling programs caught prior to his own arrest, Clarence chose to ignore them and study his surroundings. It was clear enough from the binding he wasn't getting out of this mess, it didn't help matters that the interior was infested with Elite Guard and ICP practically sewn into the infrastructure, watching them with judgmental eyes.

Surrounded by two more Recognizers, Clarence had little choice but to submit to his situation. He was stuck, stuck in a bind that his User couldn't get him out of. _That's what I get for not listening to him_ , he thought to himself. Leaning against the support behind him Clarence stared up into the sky as it gradually began to dim. The Recognizers journeyed across the city until they reached the center of the center of the city, the Administrative Office, a tall spire building that sat at angle encircled by four watchtowers that powered a firewall that protected it from illegal entry.

The Recognizers landed, their bases lowering to the ground. The ICP and Guard disengaged from their stations and grabbed their respective prisoners; they struggled, pleaded and cried with their captors as they were taken to their judgment. He heard plenty stories from Byte about what happened to programs when they were captured. Between being rewritten and derezzed in the games, he wasn't sure what sounded like the worse fate.

Clarence didn't fight against the Countermeasure Program as it lifted him off the platform and carried him (quite literally) across the expanse of empty space, through the opening of the firewall created upon his approach, toward the entrance of the building. The interior wasn't terribly different from the exterior. Large and spacious, the lobby of the A.O. was surrounded by lifts, I/O Nodes and Data Stream bases. A literal transportation port, he realized. The ICP walked toward the Data Stream and stood on the platform.

A series large yellow dots on the wall behind came to life in quick succession, stretching above their heads until it reached the socket in the ceiling. The socket glowed at the same time the platform did, encasing them in a blinding light. Clarence blinked the interference out of his vision and the next instant they were standing in a new room illuminated by warm brown, gray and red circuitry. The room was small, cubed and housing a large platform suited for a judge and two sets of bleachers for the jurors. The ICP walked down from off the platform and sat Clarence on his feet. Embarrassed, the search engine regarded the hulking program with a dissenting expression.

"Is this the program, Shost?" The voice, deep and distorted by age, startled him to attention. Clarence turned to face the origin of the voice and found himself confronted with programs wearing black and red robes, already in the chairs and the podium in the center of his line of sight. The ICP, Shost, stepped forward and saluted the significantly larger program of a similar design. "Yes, sir, Kernel, this is the one," He replied, the pride in his voice undeniable.

Kernel zeroed in on humanoid rabbit with obvious disdain, Clarence regarded the Kernel with less respect than it had for him. There was no doubt that this program was one of great importance (or power), he had enough circuitry to dwarf the inhabiting programs in the room, which suggested he was as old as the hard disk that they inhabited. "Jet Program, also known as Clarence, you have been charged with illegal entry into the system, impersonating a hidden file and consorting with the rebels known as BioKnomes," Kernel said. "As a Trojan Horse, a virus-"

Clarence's nose twitched in shock, the pupils of his eyes dilated. "A- A virus? Are you damaged-?"

"-Your fate is immediate deresolution and for the good of the system," Kernel finished. The jury of programs nodded in agreement and clapped their hands together in reverence to the Kernel. Clarence balked at the programs before him, unsure of they'd come to the conclusion that he was a virus. "But I'm not a Trojan! I'm a Search Engine, my format is to find hidden or missing programs, that's what my User made me for! Clarence cried. "You have to believe me, I'm innocent."

The room came to a sudden still, every program in the room glared down at Clarence with intent to derez. Kernel braced himself against the podium he stood before and leaned forward, slits glowing red with rage. "Blasphemy! The Users are viral programs themselves and would seek to destroy the system," Kernel bellowed.

"That's not true! My User's a good person, he treats me like an equal!"

"I'll hear no more of this! You're to be detained to the Deleted, Storage and Processing sector! Your deletion date is 4-21-10, 09000 hours. " Kernel slammed his fist down on the podium and like a hammer of judgment, the podium glowed and the ground beneath him opened up. Clarence felt the weight of his from drag him down into the blackness below, he let out a scream as he tumbled through the air. Shost watched the hole as it reformatted, he met Kernel's livid gaze and shook his head. "Viruses," He said. "Next they'll say their Users themselves."

"Perish the thought, Shost," Kernel huffed. "Perish the thought."


	12. Ten: Which path will he Choose

**TEN: Which path will he choose?**

* * *

Quorra had never been inside of a recognizer. She spent the better part of her life, post-creation date, running from them and the soldiers within. Long before she came into the care of Flynn, the program learned the quickest and easiest ways of evading capture by the vehicles, be it from an aerial attack or the very manipulation of the ground beneath her. Quorra was never behind on hide and evade tactics of Recognizers.

Combat, however, was something of a different nature altogether. Elite Guard and ICP were among the best trained programs in the system, the others were Game Bots but they were rarely ever let outside of the arena as enforcers; yet, what she came to blows with today was undoubtedly a Game Bot, and a friend. Quorra knew the moment she drew the second rod that she stood no chance against her in a fight, but she would try to buy Flynn time.

She hadn't seen her in years, not since Flynn attempted to alter his appearance to match his real-time age. Aside from the upgrade in her codes, not much had changed; she still behaved as stoic as ever, only now she worked against them, the free programs. Quorra knew better than to try and reach or reason with her, she was either repurposed or willingly working with the enemy.

She'd seen it happen before with Zuse; the flamboyant program turned on the resistance fighters in the name of opportunity. Ma3a, their creator, turned on them and became Administrator of the system core, the very heart of the grid. For intents and purposes they were fighting a losing battle one they had no realistic hopes of winning.

When the recognizer landed, Quorra watched as ICP's and Mercury were uncoupled from their stations and proceed to go through the motions of assigning programs their fates. Deletion, repurposing, arena fighter; Quorra, predictably, was assigned to the games, something Mercury didn't so much as flinch at when it was announced. "Take them to Deleted, Storage and Processing sector," Mercury said, her translucent eyes focused on Quorra.

* * *

...Postponed.

The second round of the game had been postponed, the combatants returned to their cells to await further instruction.

Quorra could only assume the system itself had been compromised. Instead, the holding carriers returned armed with Black Guard to usher them (herself and one floppy-eared individual) back to their holding cells.

Quorra kept her eyes downcast as she was led away into the deeper part of the arena, doing her best to ignore the screams and pleads of her fellow programs that echoed throughout the holding unit.

The guard threw her inside an empty cell, she fell to the ground and had no time to pounce on her enemy before the barrier went up, trapping her inside. There was nothing that she could do now except wait for her time in the games; it drove her crazy knowing she couldn't do anything to stop what was going on around her. Roaming in a circle, Quorra searched for a weak spot to no avail; the cell was "airtight", there was no real method of escape, not unless it included deletion by trying to pass through the energy barrier before her.

In another cell across from her the other program sat against the wall of his prison, long floppy white ears pressed against the sides of his head, accenting the bright red vest he wore and the blue goggles atop his head. He was unique, of that much was certain; she'd never encountered a customized program, especially one with as much complexity to his model as he had.

The pair of them sat in silence, one watching, and the other oblivious to observation. Some time passed before there was actual activity- both inside and outside his cell- within the sector. The outraged cries of two programs mingled with the equally perturbed rebuttals of the ICP who apprehended them, piquing her interest greatly.

Rising from the ground, both Quorra and the floppy-eared program approached the barriers of their cells to see what was causing the commotion; a pair spiky-haired individuals were being dragged through the hall, their models were not unlike the her quiet companion, only they were quite lively from a pair of captured programs.

The floppy eared program, to her surprise, actually became enthusiastic. His circuitry illuminated and he began to jump up and down frantically as if to catch the attention of his captors. She could barely make out what he was saying over the indignant and angry shouts of the passing party, but what she definitely caught at the last minute before the ICP fired a shot into his cell from his rod was, "My User!"

Quorra leaned forward as far as she could to catch a glimpse of the two rowdy programs only to miss them. Were they Users, or did that program just take the creator's name in vain?

She couldn't be sure.

* * *

**(TBC)**


	13. Eleven: Success or Disaster?

**ELEVEN: Success or Disaster?**

* * *

There were times when he really questioned why he took the head programming position at Elfwood Studios. More often than not the responsibilities left him feeling bushed and mentally spent, incapable of doing anything except going through the routine checklist of things that need to be done at the office. They were well into the development of  _Kami_ , things were running smoothly but they were no closer to finishing the game than they were when he arrived late for work last month.

He couldn't figure out why; for the life him they were moving as fast as they could, proofing and re-checking bugs in both the engine and the script. All of this was done without the inference of Eva, who'd been strangely too preoccupied with work to even visit him; so what was the problem? Readjusting the collar of his shirt, Jet fiddled with the messenger bag against his side and proceeded down sidewalk toward the bus stop. The biggest downside to Eva's absence was the lack of proper transportation; there were times when walking all the home from the middle of the city was too daunting a task and that's where Eva's comfy little car came into play.

What on earth could she be doing? He wondered to himself. He was so concerned with the whereabouts of his significant other that he paid little attention to the man he crossed paths with. Yet, all it took Alan but a moment to recognize his son when he saw him; it never wasn't a surprise to readjust his mindset from the sharp-eyed little boy with a mop-top to the spiky-haired young man with his angular features and his mother's looks. "Jethro," He said, knowing it would catch his attention.

Jet looked up in response, the expected guise of irritation playing on his face. "Wha-oh," Jet's features softened at the sight of his father. "Hey, dad." They stood apart in silence for a moment, waiting for the other to make a move. Then, without so much as thinking about it, Jet stepped forward and hugged his father.

Alan hid his surprise and returned the show of affection with a one armed-hug; Jet stepped out of his father's embrace, feet dragging across the sidewalk. "I, uh, I haven't seen you in a while. How are you?"

"I'm alright, and yourself?" Alan replied with little enthusiasm.

Jet shrugged his shoulders. "Job's working me like a dog, but I'm alright," He said. "How's mom?"

"I haven't spoken to her since last month, but she was fine last time I checked," Alan assured his son. "That's good," Jet nodded, rocking back on his heels. His mind went blank whenever he was alone with his father; he was either expecting a job offering or a lecture, but never a normal conversation. He hadn't had one of those since he was sixteen, relatively free of the responsibilities of adulthood. Shifting his glance away from sidewalk across the street Jet caught a glimpse of his father's twitching eyebrow and subtle little frown on his lips. "Uh, bad day at work?" He inquired uneasily.

Alan's expression remained unchanged as he replied, "You could say that."

"Do I dare ask, or are you going to tell me?" Jet asked, trying his best to withhold the sarcasm. Alan gave his son a pointed look, his expression stuck somewhere between flustered and irate. Given his temperaments, Jet could only guess his father was in the same work-stress boat as he. "You haven't heard?" Alan asked, his tone searching.

"No, of course I have, how was the wedding reception?" Now it was Jet's turn to look incredulous; he'd been working God-knows-how-many hours at the office, preoccupied with his duties as head programmer and he was supposed to have heard something beyond his own problems. "What do you think, dad?" Jethro answered. "If I didn't know any better, you were looking for a fight."

"Oh, no, not like this," Alan answered, an uneasy smile gracing his mouth. "If I wanted to fight, you'd know it. I'm no passive aggressive man, Jethro."

"It's Jet," Jethro rebuked with a twitch of his arm. "And, yeah, I know. So why you don't be straightforward with me and spill the beans."

"The merger between ENCOM and FCon was finalized this morning," Alan said. Thinking nothing of his father's words, Jet brushed the announcement off with a scoff. "Yeah, sure it was," He said.

"I'm not kidding around, Jet," Alan nearly snapped. "Mackey and Dillinger were dealing with FCon's executives behind Sam's back- your girlfriend, Eva Popoff, was at one of the meetings I was unfortunate enough to see; they bought the company right out from Flynn's feet-"

 _Flynn. It always came back to Uncle Flynn._ "Flynn's dead, dad," Jet interjected harshly. "And if you're telling me the truth-"

"If I'm- _what_ -?"

"-What do you expect me to do about it?" Jet finished.

"I wanna know why you didn't do anything to stop this," Alan asked.

Jet balked at his father, he had some nerve. "I told mom the moment Eva told me about it! If she took her time telling you, then it's not my fault."

"Why didn't you tell Sam about any of this?" Alan continued press his son, his tone teetering on the edge of loose and angry. His own patience dissolved, eroded by the stress work and his father's accusations, Jet turned his back on his face. "Like Sam would've cared? The best he would've done is slag their motherboards," Jet scoffed. "He doesn't care about his father's company, so I told somebody who did." He turned to face the confronted expression on his father's face. "Look, I get that you're angry, but you can't pin this crap on me because who my girlfriend is-"

"Jet, I don't understand why your with a woman like that," He cut him off. "She's using you, can't you see that?"

"-And we can have this argument until hell freezes over, but the truth of the matter is that your angry because you can't do anything. Eva's an opportunist, I know that, I've always know that; she took her chance, and yeah, she might've used me along the way to achieve that goal, but what do you expect me do about it?"

"Know when to leave," Alan retorted. "I've never once taught you do anything like this. You're better than this, Jet."

Jet scoffed. "Sure you have, you did all the time when you went to work at company that for all intents and purposes, fired you." At his father's incredulous expression, Jet continued. "You're a consultant for God's sake, dad. You don't actually work there; you're just there for decoration when Mackey needs to show off his ponies to the head honchos. You and ENCOM; that's the definition of a bad relationship and you wanna tell me you never taught me how be in one?"

"It's not even the same thing, Jethro," Alan fired back. "You can't compare two extremes and you can't blame me for your ill-advised choices."

"Can't I?" Jet laughed. "You're the clingy girlfriend who can't take a hint. They don't want you there anymore than I could stand to see you sulking in Mackey's shadows when I was a kid."

"Jethro-"

"It's a done deal," He exhaled harshly through his nose. "And I'm done trying to justify myself to you. Done."

"Jet, in the twenty eight years I've known you, I can only wonder what I've done to make you hate me. I know I wasn't around as often as you liked when Flynn disappeared-"

"That's putting it mildly," Jet muttered under his breath.

"But you can't hold that against me forever, you can't punish me for making less than perfect choices. If I could take it all back, do it over, I would," He continued. "But, never, ever, think for one second, I or your mother never cherished you. You're our son-"

"Which in this day and age is as about as good as an occupational hazard," Jethro snapped. "I get why mom had to leave, but I depended on you to be there for me. I was alone, I was confused, I missed by uncle. I just wanted someone around and because of her job, it couldn't be mom. Instead, you hide at work, you spend all your time with Sam;  _Sam_  didn't want to talk to me, and I'm feeling as good as ditched."

"It wasn't like that, Jet-"

"And then, almost twenty years later, you try make up for it by giving me "advice" on what my career paths should be and disapproving of who I date?" He shook his head.

"Jet, you've had half your life to get over this. Why haven't you?"

"Because, I-I don't know!" The answer was bellowed and came without warning. He hadn't meant to say it, hell, he didn't mean to think it. Between his father's bewildered expression and the sound of his own heart, he was afraid of what would happen next. Without another word he turned and headed across the street, fists shaking all the while. He might've come off as angry but the truth was he was scared; he was angry at his father for even implying that he sold ENCOM out to Eva's boss and scared to think of what Sam would do when he found out about this. As loathed as he was to admit it, ENCOM still held a reasonable amount of importance for him.

He knew what companies like FCon did to homegrown companies like ENCOM, which was already suffering from internal complications because of the new management. FCon would eat ENCOM alive and, yes, some part of him felt completely responsible for a duty that should've been dealt with by his errant excuse for a best friend.

God, how friggin Meta was that whole argument? Could he have sounded any more like a spurned stepchild? Running his hands through his hair, Jet picked up his pace and started toward ENCOM, hoping his father wasn't following him. He needed to speak with Eva.

* * *

(Sam's "Apartment"):

* * *

"… _News was announced early this afternoon in a press conference held right outside ENCOM's very doors. The head of ENCOM's rival company, FCon, Edward Dillinger sr., was seen standing among the partners who were all but too happy to see the deal finalized and their companies brought together. Dillinger sr.-"_  Sam's foot found the screen of his newly purchased television and knocked it off the stand.

The television screen went blank and the hide of the machine sparked with electricity, sending Marvin to the farthest part of the room, his self-preservation kicking in. Sam felt his fist close on the beer can in his hand, the aluminum can curled in on itself, the jagged edges jutting out against his palm. Of all the things to wake up to, this was undoubtedly the worse, second to that one incident he tried his best not to think of. The dominant emotion coursing through his body was undoubtedly anger, but what he was angry about?

Losing his father's company or being 1-uped by Richard Mackey and Edward Dillinger the second? Maybe it was both; logic dictates that his general apathy toward ENCOM outside of his father's anniversary argued, soundly, that he didn't care what happened to the place. Emotion, however, always assured him it would be there to be his to take control over and no one would be able to do anything about it when that day came.

Now it seemed he lost that chance, "that day" now becoming a fanciful memory, just like everything else in his life. And the irony was that he could've stopped this from happening if he simply chose to act over being indifferent. But there was still something he could do, right?

Something he could do to turn back the tide? There had to be. Ignoring his dog's frantic barking, Sam grabbed his leather jacket from off the arm of his couch and headed for his motorcycle. "Be good, Marv," He said. "I'm gonna have a little chat with the landlords."

Marvin barked, hopping up onto the top couch as Sam situated himself on his motorcycle, slipping the helmet over his head. Marvin wasn't usually one to contemplate the moods of his owner, but the overturned television made it rather hard to ignore he was angry. To whomever the landlords he was referring to, he could only hope that they were spared any great amount of pain, or at least didn't suffer the same fate as the television. Hopping down onto the cushions, Marvin curled up and tried to get some sleep.

On the road, illuminated by the cool brown lights of the night, Sam left caution and reason to wind. Weaving in and out of traffic, Sam contemplated how he could make them eat that wretched paper and ink; there was always the good old fashioned approach, hack and burn through their systems, feed them a bug that would takes weeks (or months) to get rid of, or storm the executive office and slug Mackey in the face. There was no way they could've done this without his permission or say so, Sam's mind boiled at the underhanded turn of events; they had to have his permission, right? Why hadn't his father left him any kind of instruction on what to do with in this kind of situation?

He was fish out of water here, and there was no father around to pick him up and throw him back into the water.  _Damnit, Dad, how could you leave me like this?_  Roaring past the parked cruiser, Sam continued dodge what little traffic that was on the road, ignoring the indignant and frightened bleats of the horns. In the distance of his rearview mirror the reflection of the flashing lights drew his attention to the world behind him.

Like second nature, the police cruiser was making it a point to peruse him; he'd had more than few run-ins with the law, most of which resulted in jail time or community service of some sort. In any other occasion he would've given them a good workout, but now wasn't the time. Veering right, he descended down into the lower street level at top speed, knowing the car wouldn't be able to catch him in time.

He continued down the road undisturbed by those around him, when he finally reached the ENCOM building, he parked his motorcycle halfway up onto the sidewalk, left his helmet sitting on the seat. It was a great way to lose your motorcycle, if someone were brave enough to steal it that is. Running a frustrated hand through his hair, Sam marched toward the entrance, a man on a mission.

Almost immediately, the security guard caught sight of him and stood up. For lack of a better word, the guy was fat, a result of indulging in sweets and coffee a little too much. His gut practically hung over on the waistline of his pants and he looked all too eager to stop him before he reached the elevator. "Uh, Mr. Flynn," He started nervously, raising a hand as if he were in school. Flynn waved him off, putting on an easy smile that stretched the skin around his lips.

"Relax, Ernie, I'm not here to start trouble," If the security guard were anyone else, they'd know he was lying, but he wasn't. So he looked at him for a moment then sat back down, brow creased with hesitation. Tugging the lapels of his jacket, Sam fussed with his hair again and stopped before the elevator. Pressing the button the elevator responded to his call immediately, opening its doors and revealing the claustrophobic space within. Stepping inside, Sam chose the desired level he wished to visit and leaned back against the wall.

As the doors began to close he spotted the all too familiar head of blonde hair belonging to his best friend, arm-in-arm with the redheaded bane of his existence. Sam felt his teeth grinding against each other as his mind began to spiral with wicked fantasies of doing awful things to her, Dillinger and Mackey. His calm was damaged, his relatively simplistic life was fractured by the complication of losing the one thing that used to be his father's.

The ride up to the main office was a stark contrast to the storm rumbling inside his head; the pull and rock of the elevator as it was taken along the interior of the building did little to relax him or quell his anger, if anything it made things worse. When the doors opened, the sound of celebration and chatter filled his ears like a wave smashing onto a dry shore.

Sticky laughter and the clang of class made his cheeks burn with indignation, stepping out of the elevator he moved down the narrow corridor of silver and glass, employees walked in and out of offices, too caught up in their own conversations to even notice him. When he reached the end of the hall it was all he could do not to jump across the room and strangle the smug bastard sipping on the chardonnay in the fragile flute glass. Mackey and Dillinger jr. stood next to each other, admiring the animated map projected on the screen suspended above them. Clenching his fists he stepped further into the boardroom and breathed harshly through his nose. "What the hell do you think you're getting at, Mackey?"

Richard looked away from the map and put on an easy smile. Setting the flute glass down the table he spreads his arms out as if requesting a hug, the lapels of his suit jacket jutting out and away from his body. "Sammy, you missed the party, son," He declared. "We just signed a lucrative deal that will have us swimming in cash for years to come and just in time to release our newest IP."

"Is that right?" Sam deadpanned, folding his arms. "I don't remember authorizing any sort of deals to be made with anyone, least of all FCon. Aren't they the competition?"

" _Were_  the competition, Sammy. We just made them our partners."

"Uh-huh. And why wasn't I contacted?"

"It's an unfortunate turn of events, but I can assure you we tried to contact you before we went ahead with his deal," Ed jr. said, adjusting his glasses.

"Is that right?" Sam repeated as he fiddled with his cell phone.

"Yes, rest assured, we did not take this matter lightly at all," Ed Jr. reaffirmed, never losing control of his cool exterior.

"Well, no, I don't see how minimizing the competition's control over the company could be taken lightly," Sam said. "My empty inbox and zero messages can attest to that."

"Sam, if you wanted to be a part of this milestone in history then you should've updated your contacts," Mackey laughed, his tone overtly condensing.

"Richie, I'm betting if I checked my contact information, it'll be up-to-date and I'm betting no one here bothered to contact me at all," Sam rebuked, wearing a condensing smile of his own. "I'm also betting, that, between you me, and him, that you knew what you were doing when signed that contract and failed to let me know about it."

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Richard stated smoothly.

"Oh, I'm sure you don't," Sam grinned. "But don't think for a second that I'm gonna let this slip."

"Is that a threat, Mr. Flynn?" Ed Jr. inquired.

"No, just a friendly heads up," Sam answered, snapping his cell phone shut. "I'll be in touch boys, don't be strangers." Sam turned and left the boardroom and the unnerved ENCOM executives behind.

He and Jet were going to have to exchange a few words before the night was through.

And his fist would be doing most of the talking.

* * *

**(TBC)**


	14. Twelve: To Win or to Lose?

**TWELVE** **: To Win or to Lose?**

* * *

Jethro arrived at ENCOM later than he would've liked. Even walking as fast as he could, primarily to get away from his father, he felt like a sloth taking an eternity to reach for the next branch. The busy energy of the city did little to sooth his raging nerves; his father had a lot a guts trying to blame the majority-loss of Uncle Flynn's company on him. And Eva- why didn't she tell him what was going on sooner? He was trapped between a rock and a hard place with his family and his girlfriend, the latter being intentionally vague and otherwise comfortable about leaving him adrift in situations like this.

He couldn't imagine what his mother thought of all of this; her opinion or thought process was too unpredictable to pin down. She could either understand or be wholly disappointed in him, there was no telling. Sam, on the other hand, he knew what he would do once he found out. "Punch me out, and use my girlfriend as target practice," He muttered to himself as he crossed the street.

The remains of the press ceremony littered the front of the building; Jet spied a ribbon here and there along with some janitors still brushing the place up. Upon entering the building he spotted Ernie relaxing in his chair and talking to one of the many employees. He didn't notice him as he went by and he certainly didn't seem to care that he was slacking on the job. He received scrutinous or curious looks from the occupying bodies as he traveled through the lobby, Jet kept his eyes ahead and his mind on his objective, steeling himself for what was to come next.

Facing Eva and asking why, either for himself or Sam, why she had done what she did was easy enough. But was she even behind it? Sure, he'd heard her say plenty of times that FCon was planning to ask Sam to do business with them as partners, but was she really behind the orchestration of this particular takeover/merger? Maybe she was innocent?

_Wishful thinking, there, Bradley._

The quick succession of click-clacking reached his ears, turning around he saw Eva approaching him with all the excitement of cat ready to pounce on her treats. She paused in the middle of the lobby and did a little dance, her red curls swaying back and forth. Despite the circumstances it was hard for Jet not to smile at her enthusiasm. She closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Praise your queen," Eva smiled.

"Eva, we need to-"

"Talk? Yes, I know," Eva interjected. "I assume, you were wondering where I was all this time."

"Yes, and no," He paused, reaching to take her arm. "It's about-" Eva moved her body out of reach, placing a finger on his shoulder she walked around him and grasped the lax limb on the right. "Continue," She said as she pulled Jethro along toward the exit. He lowered his head for a moment, suddenly feeling a hesitant to speak. Eva had never been one to hold back her feelings, opinions or the truth about whatever was on her mind, why should he? _Look at me; I'm second guessing myself because of that stupid argument with dad._ "It's about the merger with FCon and ENCOM," Jet said. "Did you have anything to do with it?"

"Of course I did. I set up the meeting between Dillinger and Mackey, made sure everything came into play as it should've," She replied. "Crown and Baza did the rest of the work. You should've seen your father's face when he saw me in the office with Mackey and Junior*. Absolutely priceless."

"How'd you manage to get Sam's permission? He's not an easy man to convince, especially given that this place belongs to his father," He said.

"Oh, we didn't. There was an emergency meeting called and well, let's just say everything was taken care of," Eva answered.

"Was that legal?" Eva gave her boyfriend a sidelong look as they approached the exit of the building. "Of course it was, I practice nothing but legal," She made a face that usually meant he was in for a very long silent treatment so he acted quickly. "Of course, I didn't mean to say you were shady, but- what happens to Sam in all this?" Eva rolled her shoulders a little; her eyes wandered the room as Jet watched her and waited for a response. As her eyes shifted back over to Jet she spotted the Sam Flynn, looking none too pleased by the way. Carefully, she angled herself so they turned away from him.

"Oh, he's still got a share in this company, not to worry," Eva patted him on the arm, distracting his attention away from Sam as he passed them.

"But, he's not majority shareholder anymore is he?" Jet pressed.

"Well, that depends largely on what you consider a majority shareholder," Eva lead them out of the building and down the stairs at such a brisk pace Jet began to wonder if she was running from someone (or something). He pulled his arm out from her grasp and paused between stairs. She turned to him, her pale skin flushed red with frustration. "Why are so worried about Sam all of sudden? He's more than well off and above all, he hasn't lost control of his company. He's fine! Why aren't you happy for me, for FCon?"

"I am happy for you, Eva, but Sam is my friend. I've known him since before he had all of his teeth," Jethro explained, hoping he didn't sound as doubtful was he was feeling. "You can't not expect me to ask questions about this he's my family."

"But I thought you hated Sam? Next you'll tell me you don't actually hate your father," Eva pouted, tucking her hair behind her ears. Jet shrugged his shoulders. Hate. That was a word he used as flippantly as "so". Did he really hate Sam or Alan, or was he still suffering the angry delusions of an eighteen year old boy who suddenly realized it was easier to say he hated them than it was to actually communicate anything other than resentment for the relationship they shared, a relationship he wish he had with his father? "It's complicated, Eva," He answered.

"If there's anything I've learned it's that complications are insultingly simple creatures. Pull one thread and it all falls back into place, or out," She stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck once more. "Now, take me home. I want to celebrate properly and cheer you up—" She pressed a kiss to the edge of his mouth and nipped it the next. "You shouldn't worry so much, _amant_. You're no fun when you're like this." Jet exhaled slowly as she continued to kiss him, her lips working their way down his jaw. If this kept up, he was pretty sure they would be hauled off to jail for improper behavior. "Okay, but you're driving," He whispered into her ear. Eva pulled away from him and smiled when she took his hand. "I already am."

* * *

"…I don't know what to do, Lora."

"You can't do anything, Alan. This is something Jet's going to have to sort out on his own."

"But-"

"Sweetheart, nothing we say is going to change how he feels about the situation. Lecturing him about Eva, pushing him, it's only going to make things worse."

"I know, I know. It just feels wrong-" Alan trailed off as the e-mail opened up and he read the text.

Subject: Long Time

To: alanbradley : Sender Unknown

Date: 4-21-10

_It's been a while hasn't it, friend?_

_Can't imagine what you look like now it's been so long. There's so much I want to tell about my trip, you won't believe the things I've learned! I told you I'd change the world and I did, but you have to see it for yourself, man._

_How's my Sammy been doing, and Jet? I should hope you've been taking care of the company because I'm ready resume where I left off._

_Come to Flynn's Arcade early tonight and we'll have a drink, remember all the great times we shared together as business partners._

_\- Kevin Flynn_

"I don't believe it," Alan stared at the computer for a good ten minutes after reading the letter. His fingers felt numb, his arms were limp noodles. After twenty seven years, Kevin Flynn had returned from the presumed dead.

But, of all the times to do it! His company wasn't even his anymore, barely his son's and there was he writing about how excited he was about returning to the forefront of ENCOM. The irony of this e-mail was more painful than the pins and needles prickling his fingers right now. But whose was to say this was the real Kevin Flynn?

There was no e-mail address, the IP address was coming directly from the arcade, someplace Jet should've already been at this point of the day. There were surprisingly little gimmicks or hoaxes dealing with Kevin Flynn in the time of his disappearance. If anything the world seemed to forget about him the longer he stayed gone, and the pranksters that dared to impersonate Flynn were often dealt with the Flynn Lives organization or Sam himself whenever he caught wind of it. Alan self-consciously kept the pager on at him at all times in case Flynn ever decided to pull his head out of the sand and return to reality as they knew it.

But why contact him first instead of his own son? Sam seemed more of a priority than Alan himself; he was flesh and blood after all. Had he become that apathetic toward his son in the aftermath of his disappearance? He shook his head; no, that couldn't be it. Kevin adored his son, kept him close when his mother died and Sam loved his father. There was no way he didn't care; maybe he just wanted to surprise him.

"What's wrong? Alan?" Lora's voice over the phone startled him out of his trace. Readjusting the phone in his hand, he pinned it between his shoulder and ear. "Lora, I think Flynn's come home."

'What? You're kidding?" Lora's voice hit a new pitch; he could hear her scrambling to right herself wherever she was sitting or lying down and the sound of the base of the phone hit something. "Alan, that isn't funny."

"I'm not joking. I got an e-mail and Flynn's telling me he's at the arcade."

"How do you know it's him?"

"I-I don't, exactly. There's no e-mail address, but-"

"Alan, you can't believe-"

"I know I shouldn't, Lora, but- I dunno, this looks like the real thing and its coming from the Arcade."

"What if it's just Jet playing tricks on you again?"

"After that that spat we had do you really think he would intentionally lead me on like this?"

"Alright, but think this through, the last time you got an e-mail like this…"

"It was a fake, I know. But I've got to check this out, just to make sure."

There was a frustrated sign on the line. He could imagine Lora running her fingers through her hair. "I wish I was there with you, I could come along. It'll be like old times if this turns out to be true."

"Not exactly "old times"," He smiled regarding his wrinkling hands. "I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

"You better."

Ending the call, Alan pulled himself away from the computer and headed downstairs. He should've known better than to get excited, but he couldn't help the giddiness and apprehension that struck all at once. He was going to see his friend again after all these years. What did he look like, what did he learn and why the hell didn't he come back to raise his son? If had, would his relationship with Jet be any better? Alan couldn't fathom it. Slipping into his jacket he stepped out of the house and climbed into his car. The streets were calmer during the night. The rush hour and mad dash to return home long past, Alan could navigate his way to Flynn's Arcade with little difficulty.

If Flynn was there and Jet was home, he could imagine his son was probably worshiping the round Flynn walked on. For as long as he denied it, there was an obvious connection between Flynn and his son that he could never tap into. Whatever Flynn did or said Jet gobbled it up as a child, his imagination running wild with stories of the "Grid", Tron and Yori. It was hardest thing in the world to not resent your best friend for "stealing" your son, it was even harder acknowledging that he probably that he was jealous because Jet seemed more intent on following Kevin around like a baby goose did it's mother.

It was stupid, selfish and immature, but he couldn't help it. The rotten side of him was somewhat glad that Kevin was gone because it meant Jet's attention would automatically default back to him in his mother's absence. Funny how that turned out to be the exact opposite in the end. When he arrived there were the lights on and Journey played loud enough for the dead neighborhood to hear. Eva's car was parked outside so that meant Jet was home. Maybe this was a prank.

Stepping out of the car, he approached the arcade and rummaged through his jacket. There he found the spare key given to him by Kevin all those years ago; this would've saved him a lot of grief once upon a time whenever Jet refused to allow him entrance, but the need to respect his son's personal space often overrid his parental desire. Slipping the key into the hole he unlocked the door and stepped inside. "Flynn?"

No response.

The Arcade took on a different kind of atmosphere when night fell; the overhead lights barely illuminated the interior and if he didn't know his way around the place already, Alan was sure he would've bumped into something. The door made a resounding creek when he closed it. Wincing, he looked up toward the stairs and waited for a response.

The best he got were a series of muffled moans and grunts that were both nauseating and nostalgic. Now was not the time to go swimming in the gutter and using one's son as a jumping point for post-honeymoon memories. Slinking past the stairs he ventured into the heart of the arcade with increasing disappointment. There was no sign of Flynn anywhere, let alone any sign that Jet was aware of his presence if he wasn't the orchestrator of this fiasco. As he turned to leave, he noted something off about the TRON arcade console.

Stepping closer he realized it was sitting away from the wall, held at bay by a cinderblock. "Hello," He muttered to himself. Studying the grooves in the floor Alan realized this was no recent addition to the arcade, this had been here and used for quite some time. From the looks of the door it might've been used once as an escape route of some kind, maybe a cubbyhole for the wanted. Kneeling down he pushed at the small door and watched as it opened to reveal a set of stairs. "Flynn?"

"I'm down here, Alan."

Alan's eyes became wide as saucers; that was Flynn's voice alright. He couldn't believe it, he'd actually come back. Stepping through the doorway he headed down into the unknown. The surrounding area was surprisingly well kept, he could only imagine Jet had been down here or Kevin was busy playing housemaid. He found himself in the middle of a workshop full of Kevin's old and unfinished projects, pictures of his family, newspaper clippings and an assortment of other belongings that included the Shiva laser. So that's where that thing went.

But, there was no sign of Kevin Flynn. "Flynn, where are you hiding?"

"Over here, Alan." Alan's attention turned toward the large desktop as its light illuminated the area. A tabletop computer, now there was something he hadn't seen since the early days of ENCOM. They went out of fashion at the company, but it was highly amusing to see an entirely different variant of them rise from the ashes in the form of iPads and iPhones. It reminded him nothing innovative was every truly original in thought or concept, just better in terms of efficiency.

Edging closer to the desktop, Alan overlooked the data scrolling across the screen with some apprehension. What bits and pieces he could read were flooring him. This was information that shouldn't have even been possible to process.

Everything he was seeing clearly pointed to a self-sustaining and almost virtual world, not unlike the "Grid" world Flynn often talked about. "Unbelievable," He murmured. _What on earth had Jet- or Flynn- been up to?_ "Just wait until you see it, you'll really lose your stuff, man," Flynn's voice echoed all around him, but there was no sign of him. His unoccupied hand fell from his pocket; his pager hit the ground with a thud. As Alan scrambled to understand what was going on around him, he failed to recognize the low whirr of the Shiva laser as it powered up.

* * *

Jet woke the next day none the wiser of the events that transpired in his uncle's basement of solitude. For once, Eva was fast asleep, curled up with her back turned to him. Scrubbing his face he slipped from underneath the covers and stumbled about the room.

The only downside to being born with poor eyesight was that you couldn't walk around for a second without your glasses. Directing himself over to the bedside table he picked his glasses up and slipped them on. The world in focus, he dressed himself appropriately for roaming the house and left the room. True to her word, Eva was in complete control when the celebration began; he couldn't complain of course, he was having too much fun.

Now that the festivities were over, it was hard to push away the conflicting emotions of guilt, fear and shame. He'd been so self-assured in that argument, now that he was second guessing himself at every turn because Eva was decidedly lacking remorse about her actions. How easy it was it to simply admit that he was being used and disconnect himself from the consequences of his actions before now? Given his connections to the Flynn's and ENCOM, how could Eva not use him? Yet, how he could stay with her? Jet let out a frustrated huff. "This is ridiculous, I shouldn't be thinking like this," He muttered, scratching the back of his head.

Descending down the stairs Jet tried to distract himself with other things besides the fight, Eva and Alan. Wandering further around the first floor he bypassed all thought of eating and headed for the front door. When turning the door knob, the last thing he expected was find it unlocked. A creature of some paranoia, he knew neither he or Eva left it that way; pulling the door open Jet found himself face to face with his father's car sitting across the way just a few inches away from Eva's. Alan was here? Retreating back inside, he looked around the room in suspicion. "Dad?"

No response, of course. Closing the door, Jet approached the TRON console. He'd left it open before he'd gone to work yesterday. It was miracle that Eva was too preoccupied with other things to notice the cinderblock propped up against the back of the faux console. She was still sleep, so there was a good chance he could still hide it from her.

The door was open, there was a good chance that Alan was downstairs. Stepping through the entrance he made his way down the stairs, his skin prickled at the sensation of metal pressing into his bare feet, leaving tiny circular impressions in his skin the longer he allowed his feet to linger in one place. Entering Kevin's workspace, Jet found nothing out of the ordinary in the environment.

No Alan, not even a trace that he'd been here (if he ever was). He was the only person besides Sam with a key to the arcade, that was the only way to explain the open door and his car, but where did he go? Walking around here was sure to get you mugged depending on the time of day and the desperation of a thug, his father was no fool so he doubted he was hoofing it unless there was a problem with his car.

Even then he would've used his phone or called him down from his engagement with Eva. Man, he hoped dad didn't hear anything last night. Approaching the computer console he noticed a small black object on the ground. Kneeling down he reached out and touched. His father's pager tipped over on its edge, his eyebrows raised as his fingers picked it up. So he _was_ here.

"Jethro, _amant_ , what is this?" Eva's voice made his heart grow still and the color drain from his face. Crap and more crap; Jet stood and moved away from the computer, approaching the stairs, the atmosphere of the claustrophobic area became charged, clammy and surreal. Eva was like a giant standing over him, the small and minute creature who invaded her domain. She stared down through the small entrance, eyes curious and wanting. It was time to make an excuse, something that would keep her from poking any further.

* * *

For whatever reason Alan had the feeling that this had had happened a dozen times before; maybe in a dream, maybe in a twisted parody of a fanboy's desire. Staring out into the wide blue nothing, he contemplated whether or not he'd gone crazy or hadn't left the house at all.

Maybe he simply dreamt up the conversation between himself and Lora conjured a scenario in which Kevin e-mailed him and he'd been shot by a long since decommissioned laser. Maybe he'd finally cracked under the pressures of ENCOM and his own belief that Flynn would return and fabricated a nightmare made flesh. Either way he did his best not to move as the hulking figures of red and black surrounded him, long rods aimed directly at his back, chest and legs. "Freeze, program! You've accessed this system without proper authorization!" They were big, loud and boisterous; not unlike Flynn.

Raising his arms over his head, he gave them a weary smile. "I don't suppose any of you might know who laced the punch, would you?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** *See: _Fragmentation II_ : "Subterfuge"

 **Next:** "Welcome to the Machine" - Jethro deals with the ambitions of Eva once she discovers Flynn's secret place; Jet and Sam investigate the disappearance of Alan Bradley after Lora contacts Sam. Quorra is sent into the arena to face her first opponent, Clarence.


	15. Thirteen: Welcome to the Machine

**THIRTEEN: Welcome to the Machine**

* * *

_"Technological breakthroughs have brought a revolution in the way we live, the way we think._ _Nowadays communication is so accessible and instant that almost every barrier has been broken."_  - Abstergo Industries

* * *

"Jethro, amant, what is this?"

 _The batcave_ , was the sarcastic reply in his head.

"It's, uh, just a basement," Simple enough explanation, he thought. Eva folded her arms, the sleeve of her robe sliding down just slightly to reveal her shoulder. She regarded the console and the frame of the door with extreme suspicion.

"A basement hiding behind an arcade console, lover?" She said, dubious of his explanation. Jet shrugged his shoulders, a thin smile on his lips. "What can I say, my uncle was a paranoid sort've guy," He said. "Really, it's just a bunch of junction boxes down here, believe me."

"If it's all the same, I don't believe you," She smiled, descending the stairs. "I've been with you long enough to know when you are lying." Jet shook his head and started up the stairs. He closed the distance between them before she get any further down, placing a hand on the wall he angled his head so that stared at her with half-lidded eyes. "Eva-"

"Hmm?"

"Evan-"

"Oh, Jethro, you used my entire name," Eva giggled, draping her arms around his shoulders and leaning in. "What are you hiding?"

Jet nearly lost his balance on the stairs as Eva brushed her nose against his own. He stepped down reestablishing equilibrium between himself and Eva. "-Nothing, I'm not hiding anything. Like I said, it's just a bunch of junction boxes down there. I do think it would be prudent to go back upstairs and have breakfast," Jet finished. Eva stared at him like he'd grown two heads all while maintaining an immaculate first-thing-in-the-morning smile.

"Alright," Eva slinked away from him and started back up the stairs. Jet was careful to reframe from sighing audibly and followed suit. They were barely halfway up the stairs when Eva turned and rushed down, practically knocking Jet over in the process of evading him. Jet followed the momentum of his body, trying to balance himself by falling back against the wall. He ignored the pain in his shoulder blades and hurried back down the stairs. "Eva!" He reentered the room to find Eva standing in awe at the sight of Flynn's workspace, hands covering her mouth speaking to herself in French.

 _Great, this is just great._ Between the calcium rolling off the edges of his teeth as they pressed together and the headache developing on the right side of his head, Jet fought to find the appropriate response to the situation unfolding before him.

Eva turned in a slow circle, admiring the odds and ends of the environment; her eyes fell upon the Shiva laser and the computer just across the way. "Oh, Jethro, what a secret you have," She cast a look over her shoulder, smiling all the while. "Or is it Flynn's?"

"Eva, it's not for sale," Jet discarded all pretense of beating around the bush. The look in her in eye, the way her lips curled, she was already counting the dollars, calculating the variables of success for the newly combined powers of ENCOM and FCon. She strolled over to the computer, examining the tabletop like a child would covet a new toy separated from them by store glass.

The amount of data scrolling across the screen wasn't all decipherable to her, but she knew what the Shiva laser could mean for the company; decommissioned or no, there was a profit and a vast catalog of information to pull from these machines. "You can't really be thinking of keeping this all to yourself, amant," Eva smiled. "You don't owe anything to Flynn."

"It's not about owing Uncle Flynn anything," He said. "He had this hidden for a reason. Maybe he wasn't ready to show it to the world."

"Given his current circumstances, I don't think he should have any say in what the world is ready for," When she saw his expression had yet to change, she placed her hands together and put on her best face. "Jethro, do you not realize what you're sitting on? The information, the possibilities for ENCOM-"

"Eva this tech is over 28 years old, I think it's safe to say there isn't much we could learn from it," Jet interjected. "And technically, I don't get a say in what happens to this stuff, Sam Flynn does."

"Maybe so; but, I'm no fool, I know about the technology your mother worked to make this machine - this laser, possible. She uses it now in another profession entirely, decompiling physical data and transferring it to different locations inside of a computer," Eva shot back. "Do you not realize what this could do for the games we develop, for humanity in general?"

"Not a whole lot of good, methinks," Jet answered. "Eva, really, it's a worthless piece of junk; I've been working on this machine for who knows how long and I can't get it to do anything besides respond to my voice. It's a sentimental collector's item. There is no use for it."

"The gentlemen doth protest too much, methinks," Eva sat down in the chair and crossed her legs. "There is something here, something you don't want me to learn and so you lie, not once, but several times."

"I learned from the best," The words slipped from his mouth before he had a chance to revise them. Eva stared him square in the eyes, a thin smile stretching her lips. "I am many things, Jethro, but a liar is not one of them. At least, not in the way your father paints me," She breathed.

Jet said nothing.

"It's true enough, I've been given every opportunity to use you as I see fit in the name of my job, I've even tried to convince you into playing dirty, but you never do and I never have," She scoffed. "But because your father, your friend and maybe your mother, don't approve of me, you doubt my sincerity and believe me gold digger skimming the waters for wealth you don't have. Really, Jethro, you behave like such a child."

"My mom loves you."

'Well, she seems to be the only one in Bradley family who does!" Eva rose from the chair and started toward him. Jet shook his head, uncomfortable with idea of being thrown into the same arena as his father. "Eva, I love you," He said. "I never said otherwise." Eva's hand found its way to his chest; her fingernails tapped his shirt like a cat waiting for its meal to come out of hiding. "Then prove it to me. Give me a reason to keep your secret and I won't speak a word of it."

Once again Jet found himself rendered speechless.

* * *

It'd been well over eight hours since the last she heard from Alan and she was beginning to worry. He didn't respond to the page she sent, he didn't answer his either his cell or office phone.

No one at work had heard from him since last night. The only other person she had to look to was Jethro. The last place Alan was going was Flynn's arcade. If he was still there, what on earth was he doing?

Did he find Flynn or was it just another practical joke? Roaming the kitchen she sent the phone occasional looks, contemplating on whether or not she should call the arcade to see how things were going. Flynn was just as much her friend, if not more given their history together, a history that predated Alan. Sitting the coffee cup on the kitchen counter, Lora lifted the phone from its cradle and began to dial the number for the arcade. After a couple rings she was finally greeted by the sound of her son's answering machine:

" _Hi, this is Jet. I'm not here right now, so leave it at the beep. …Thanks."_

"Jethro, pick up, it's your mother. Last night you're father got an e-mail from someone who claimed to be your godfather. I know it sounds crazy, but the e-mail was sent from your IP address and for whatever reason, your father went to investigate. That was over eight hours ago. He hasn't called in since and I'm not getting a response from any of his numbers. If you happen to see him, please-"

"Ma, it's Jet," Her son's voice was breath of relief; she smiled and leaned against the counter. "Jet, thank goodness your home. Is your father there?"

"No, he isn't-"

"He's not?"

"-But his car and his page are," Jet finished. "Why, what's wrong?"

"He's not picking up at the house, and no one at work has seen him since late yesterday," Lora responded. "You're sure he's not there?"

"Mom, I'm standing in middle of my apartment, I've searched the whole place. He's not there," Jet assured her. "And what's this about an e-mail?"

"Last night, we were talking and he told me he got an e-mail from Kevin Flynn. The e-mail that came from your IP address, but there was no real sender address to speak of."

"My account might've hacked, mom, I didn't send it" Jet supplied, dreading the mere idea. "Dad knows better than take stuff like this seriously."

"We thought it was from you, we thought you were fooling around," Lora argued. "But he wanted to be sure." She paused, chewing the edge of her lip. It wasn't like Alan to leave his car behind, let alone that blasted pager. "You're sure he's not there?"

"Positive, mom," Jet replied. "I think he just took a walk. If he comes back, I'll let you know, I promise."

"The second he gets back?"

"You've got my word," Jet affirmed. "…Eva, just give me a second, okay?"

Lora felt her heart skip a beat at the mention of Popoff, her mind going back to the conversation she had with Alan last night. "Eva's there?"

"Yes, Eva's here. She says hello," He sighed. "Look, mom, I'm kinda in the middle of something, so-"

"I understand. Just remember what you promised."

"I won't forget," Lora flinched slightly as the line went dead and the dial tone rang in her ears. She lowered the phone from her ear, puzzling over the shifting attitudes in her son's voice. Preoccupied wasn't the word for what she was hearing in his tone, not by a long shot. And what possessed Alan to leave without his car or pager? Raising the phone back to her ear, she dialed another number and prayed he was home.

"Hello?" The voice teetered somewhere on the edge of incoherent and groggy.

"Hey, stranger, late night?" Lora asked.

"You could say that. …How've you been, Lora? This is Lora and not Cindy I'm talking to right?"

"Who's Cindy?"

"Some girl I met last night. So this is Lora?"

"Yes, Sam, this is Lora Bradley you're speaking to. I need to ask you a favor."

* * *

_(TRON CITY):_

* * *

Never in a million years did Quorra believe she would be thrust back into the center of chaos in TRON city. A virtual prisoner of the heart and mind, she felt useless sitting in the Deleted, Storage and Processing sector. A dozen more programs, unverified or otherwise, filled the rapidly expanding prison by the day, making her situation seem even more bleak.

Was she ever going to escape?

The voice of Clu rang out overhead and inside the walls of her confinement, taunting her and so many others with news of how order continued to progress as the rebels are weeded out of their hiding place. Ma3a, her creator - her mother - approved of mass genocide of her own people, declared it a necessary evil in the name of maintaining system order.

She couldn't imagine, not matter how many times Flynn told her, why she never chose to go with him when he escaped. Did she care for them so little that she could sacrifice the entire system of ISOs for some warped agenda? And what of Mercury?

The last she'd ever heard from her she was going to help more programs escape from the city, now she was an enforcer for Clu. Aside from herself, Mercury knew of several locations hiding free programs, if she was working against them then there chances of winning were even slimmer than she initially believed. Quorra believed Mercury their last hope after Tron and Yori were captured, one of the few programs strong enough to combat the viral takeover.

Now she was gone too.

"Mirroring complete; disc activated and synchronized. Proceed to games," Quorra glanced up from the ground to stare into the brown eyes of the ebony-skinned siren who maintained the look passivity. "Good luck, program," Another from behind said to her.

"I won't need luck," She replied, barely raising her voice. The sirens paused for a moment to share a smile of secrets then frowned. Stepping down from the platform they marched away from her in their usual formation, programs robbed of their agency.

The shackles on her feet were freed as soon as the sirens returned to their pods to sleep, swallowing nervously she proceeded toward the tunnel of light that would take her to the roulette module. The doors closed behind her; straight ahead she could see a dozen more programs staring out into the open, contemplating their fate. Quorra remembered playing the games before they became a game of lethal sport and violent spectacle.

The objective had always been to never harm the opponent, but to defeat them. However, in parameters meant to pit desperate program against program, she had to rethink her strategy; there was no avoiding the deletion of her fellow programs, there just wasn't. She had to focus on surviving. Survival was the key to success.

Above her the roar of the crowd grew nearer and nearer, they shouted an assortment of phrases, primarily pertaining to their favorite sport of the period. Quorra reached behind her and unsheathed her disc from its port. Her mask shielded her face almost immediately, hyping her nerves for the event.

" _Fellow programs and bureaucrats, get ready for the next exciting around of the Arena Wars! We've got a very special batch of opponents facing off against each other this cycle, friends and enemies alike, even a few stray programs!"_

Quorra frowned in disapproval at the elation in the roar of the crowd, she stepped forward as module's doors opened and the platform lurched forward, knocking out onto the simulated arena floor just above the core system's filter. Quorra remained absolutely still as she and one other was carted forward to the different sides of the arena. Glancing up, she realized the game was stationed directly below the rotating disc wars arena.

" _Our first order of the day is Hyperball; combatants will throw their respective energy discs at their opponent's circle of safety until the rings are destroyed. We've seen this game end in all manner of interesting ways, so who'll come out the winner is anyone's guess! Let's give a big welcome to the renegade programs Quorra and Clarence! Do your best guys!"_

That program was far too cheery for Quorra's liking. Quorra centralized her focus on the long eared program, trying her best not to puzzle over his odd design scheme. He stared back at her with his large red eyes and shouted, "Is this really necessary?! I'm just a search program, I didn't do anything wrong!"

"If we don't they'll just delete one or both of us!" Quorra fired back, tossing her disc across the arena. The floppy eared opponent leapt out of the way in record time, her disc missed him completely and proceeded to return to her. "I hate this!" Clarence shouted miserably.

"Shut up and fight, program!" Quorra retorted.

* * *

"This is completely unnecessary," Jet grumbled, opening the door. "I told her I'd call her if he showed up." Sam rolled his eyes as he forced his way into the building, ignoring the disapproving look he received from Eva.

Still feeling slightly hungover from last night's events (one drinking marathon that kicked him out of the not-so-local bar), Sam had initially thought to reject Lora's concerned request to visit his father's old arcade, Jet's apartment. Despite how much of the situation mirrored his own from her explanation, Sam's mind was stuck somewhere between "I don't give a damn" and too fried to think straight.

But this was Lora and she was worried about Alan, something she didn't on a day to day basis given their relative commonplace lifestyle. Somehow he mustered up enough brain cells to promise he would visit the apartment as soon as he got himself together. There weren't enough hours in the day to recover from the headache that presently knocking at the door of his head, yet the situation demanded prompt action.

So he caught a ride on the nearest bus in his location and rode as far as Jet's neighborhood, walking the rest of the way to the arcade. The mid-morning air did a little to straighten him out, enough to walk straight and adhere to the rules of the road. When he arrived he wasn't at all surprised that Jet left him standing outside for a good ten minutes before he finally appeared from upstairs to give him entrance.

"For a guy who's missing a father you sure are calm, Jezebel," Sam remarked, using the unfortunate nickname he branded Jet with during college. Jet glared at him, pretending not to notice the incredulous look on his girlfriend's face. "I'm not in the mood to dish it out with you today, Samantha, okay? I've got other problems," He said.

"Your missing father ranking below one of what- zero?" Sam shot back. Jet threw his hands up in the air and started to pace the room; Sam was just asking to be punched in the face. "Look, I'm not exactly a spring daisy myself-"

"That's for sure," Eva interjected, pinching her nose. "You reek of alcohol."

"-So if you mind telling me, why exactly you mom thought it prudent enough to call me?" Sam finished, ignoring Eva still.

"Ah, she probably thought I wasn't taking her seriously," Jet replied, retrieving the pager from his pocket. He tossed the compact device over to his friend. Sam snatched it out of the air like a catcher and examined it. "It's Alan's pager."

"How perceptive you, Bucky," Jet grumbled. "I found it in your dad's-"

"Ah, does he really need to know about-"

" _Yes_ , Eva, he does need to know. This is his father's place after all. I'm just renting," Jet glared at his girlfriend. "Like I was saying, I found the pager in your father's basement here at the arcade."

Sam blinked. "The arcade doesn't have a basement," He said.

"Uh, it does actually," Jet corrected, stepping toward the TRON game console. Sam watched his friend with a skeptical eye, fingers tracing the edges of Alan's pager. Jet kneeled down and grabbed the edge of the console; with one heave he pulled the machine away from the wall to reveal the doorway to the basement.

Using his foot to keep the machine from sliding back he reached over to grab the cinderblock from earlier and propped it against the back. Pushing the door open, Jet cast a glance over his shoulder. Sam stared down at the entrance like he'd seen a ghost. "No way," He murmured. "I don't believe this."

"It's crazy, I know, but this is where he used to go to work when he wasn't at ENCOM, he's got paperwork down here and everything," Jet explained. "I think he would want you to see this." Sam felt his throat go dry in all but a second; he stared down at the entrance then back up at Jet. This had been here right under his nose the whole time and no one had told him? His father never told him about this place as a child? "H-how do you know about it?"

"I actually just stumbled onto it by accident," Jet said, gesturing toward the door. "I've been sprucing things up for the last couple months or so… it was supposed to be a surprise." Sam's mouth opened then closed and opened again.  _Wait, a couple of months?_  "So, you knew about this the whole time and didn't plan on telling me?"

Jet groaned. "Sam, what part of 'it was going to be a surprise' do you not comprehend?"

"The whole part about you not telling me immediately," Sam retorted. He crossed the room, arms folded across his chest. "Now what does this have to do with Alan, exactly?"

"I found the pager in the basement. Don't know what that means, but he was here and now he's gone. It hasn't even been twelve hours yet."

"You planed on telling Lora after the twelve hour stipulation? That's considerate of you."

"Sam, what do you want me to do? A pager and a car isn't enough to get me to believe he's been kidnapped, beaten or eaten by rabid dogs."

"Did you call his cell?"

"Several times, he's not answering," Jet answered. "I'm telling you, there's nothing to worry about."

"Maybe there is, amant," Eva spoke at last, letting the boys know she was still around. Both men turned to look at her, eyebrows raised. Sam seemed to be asking what she just called his friend and Jet was more interested in what possessed her to think she knew where his father was. "Eva, if you're thinking what I think you're thinking…" Jet started, brows furrowed.

"Just hear me out, Jethro," Eva replied. "When there is no logical explanation, there can only be an illogical one, yes?"

"No," Was the synchronized response from both men.

"It's not impossible to believe that maybe something happened to him and whatever is in the basement has something to do with it," She pressed.

"What is she trying to say?" Sam inquired, completely lost.

"Eva you  _never_  struck me as someone who believed in the fantastic, why are you starting now?"

"Because, you're standing here with your father's pager, his car is outside and no sign of him," She answered. "Humor me. What man leaves without his car or use of communication?"

"Sam does," Jet countered, earning him a sidelong look from the younger Flynn. Eva removed herself from the other side of the room, closing the distance between them she beckoned the two forward with her finger. "Follow me, I think I may have an answer for you."

"Is she-"

"Relax, Sammy, she's already been in the basement, so I don't see the harm," Jet interjected, pulling Sam along after him. The trio traveled down through the passage, the taller figures of Jet and Sam occasionally running into one another to accommodate the casual pace of Eva. It took the better part of Sam's sloppy self-control to not tremble at the very sight and smell of the basement.

Jet turned to regard his friend with some concern as Sam was completely beside himself in quiet awe. Everything looked and felt like this father's presence in the room. He walked over to a billboard on the wall. Scraps of yellowing paper showcased his father's shaky penmanship, pictures of his mother, of him in his youth playing at the arcade and the entire family on his first birthday was plastered before his eyes like a melancholy reminded of what his life used to be. "Blast from the past," He whispered to himself.

"How touching," Sam pulled himself away from his memories to shoot a look at Eva. The woman stood at the computer, fingers poised on the tabletop. "If you're done swimming in the river nostalgia, perhaps we can get on with the matter at hand?"

"Eva, play nice," Jet sighed.

"I'd rather not," She patted the seat situated in front of her. "Come here, Jethro." At this point Jet didn't see the point in correcting her, tired of repeating himself. Crossing the distance he situated himself in the chair. "So what are we doing?"

"I'd like to know myself," Sam said joining the two at the computer.

"Jethro said that the computer responded to his voice, maybe your father triggered something down here," Eva explained.

"And what, got himself sucked into a computer?" The sarcasm in his voice was hard to miss. He tapped the screen, the dataflow stopped and revealed a black screen and green dot matrix font. "Ma3a?"

"Welcome back Alan Two," Ma3a's voice rang loud and clear around them, eliciting more than just a few head turns from Sam and Eva.

Sam raised an eyebrow, bracing himself against the table he learned forward and examined the screen. "Alan Two?"

Jet shrugged. "She's never called me that before. It's usually 'welcome back Clarence', my username," He said. "It's an automated voice, it usually just responds to 'first command' or 'last activity' inquiries. Simple stuff."

"How can I be of service, Alan Two?"

"Ma3a, I need to know the last time I was logged on."

"Your last active log date was 4/21/10 at 11:40pm."

"Is that right?" Eva wondered.

"Yeah, no, I wasn't down here at eleven forty," Jethro answered.

"See, what did I tell you? The computer held the answers, your father was here," She smiled.

"It doesn't explain where he went," Said Jet. "Ma3a, where is Alan One?"

"Alan One?" Eva repeated.

"It's my father's username," Jet provided.

"Alan One is currently online."

Okay, that didn't sound right at all. "Clarify, what do you mean by 'online'?"

"User Alan One is currently online, on the Grid."

"Jet this doesn't sound like any automated talk box I've heard before," Sam started to say. Jet prepared to respond with the usual dose of sarcasm when the screen in front of him started flashing rapidly.

"That's because she is not an automated voice."

The screech of the office chair's wheels against the grated floor caused Eva to jump away from Jet before her feet were crunched by the offending object. Tripping over her own feet, she fell over, directly under the Shiva Laser. "What is the matter with you?!" She cried. The pair of them looked as though they'd seen a ghost, eyes wide and fists clenched. Sam was the first to unlock his jaw teeth. "That machine just sounded like my father," He murmured.

"What? I don't understand…"

"Eva, I don't think it matters," Was Jet's hasty reply. He situated himself in front of the computer again and tried to regain control of the system. "What's it doing?" Sam asked, joining his side. "It's trying to activate the laser subroutine." Jet shook his head, it was like playing tag or solitaire; every attempt he made to subvert the system's access, it overturned it twice as fast. "Crap! Ma3a, whatever you're doing, stop it right now!"

"Negative, Alan Two, your presence is required on the Grid."

"W-wait, what?!" Jet blurted. "Where's my father?"

"Alan One is online."

"Let me try," Sam bumped his friend away from the center of the computer and attempted to block the computers commands with a few tricks of his own. Jet kneeled in front of his girlfriend and helped her off the floor. To say she looked baffled or confused by their actions would be an understatement. She looked ready to kneel over from frustration of being in the dark. "Eva, go upstairs and shutdown the second junction box in the kitchen. It should cut off the power here in the basement," Jet told her. Eva stared at him as though he didn't hear him. "Go!" He shook her gently. "Alright, alright," She pulled herself from his grasp and headed for the stairs.

"Your resistance is admirable, but futile; my orders still stand, your presence is required on the Grid." As if this situation wasn't any worse, the computer was now quoting the Borg. Sam tried several more times to deny the computer's commands only to have the virtual keyboard locked. "No!"

"What?"

"It locked the keyboard," Sam growled.

"Now activating Shiva Laser," Ma3a announced. "3… 2… 1…" Sam and Jet turned in unison to find the machine was illuminated and ready to fire. Where was Eva and the miracle saving brownout? Reacting a second too late, the duo leapt to different sides of the room; the laser jerked left to right, tagging them both. Petrified in midair, the laser scanned their bodies and began to decompile their physical forms into transferrable data.

* * *

**(TBC)**

**Author's Note:**  Watching more a few walktrhoughs of  _Kingdom Hearts 3D_  really gave me a boost in inspiration to complete and revise this chapter. The announcer in the Game Arena is largely nod to the enthusiastic tournament personalities in  _Yu Yu Hakusho_  (Koto and Juri). A big thank you to everyone who've been reading, following and favoriting this story so far. It's hugely appreciated.


	16. Fourteen: TRON CITY vs. THE SPACE PARANOIDS

"That's quite a lightshow, eh?" Clu regarded the pillar of light in the far off distance with envious eyes, arms poised behind his back. At his side Rinzler watched fluxing light with relative disconnect from the emotion the spectacle itself might bring to certain programs. He looked to Clu as if to ask what they - or rather, what he - was up against. "Renegades?"

A smile graced Clu's mouth, crow's feet decreasing as the muscles in his face relaxed. Without second thought his hand placed itself on Rinzler's shoulder, condescending and undermining. "No, my friend, more players for our game," He turned away from the luminescent display before him and approached the center of the room. "A little incentive, a little muscle."

Rinzler followed his movement for a time then raised his gaze to regard the woman sitting high in a wingback throne connected to an illuminated ceiling by phosphorous-esque tubes that feed system data into her back. Ma3a, the system administrator, some would say the true power behind the Grid. Her opal eyes, glazed over with white, stared out into nothing; she didn't so much as move when Clu began to climb the stairs leading to her. "Ma3a, how are things coming along?"

"Download complete, Alan Two and unknown are online," Ma3a answered, closing her eyes.

"Excellent, excellent," Clu grinned. "Rinzler, go see to it that our friends are brought to us." Rinzler nodded and stalked out of the throne room. "Ma3a?"

"Yes, Clu?"

"Tell the Kernel to prepare for another set of programs, but tell him nothing of their origin," The facsimile told her.

"Of course, he will judge them accordingly, as always," Ma3a smiled.

* * *

They've both had this dream before; the sensation of falling, traveling without moving. Tumbling in the dark until there was no way of telling you left or right from your up and down, and hitting the ground without ever feeling it. You don't die, you wake up and realize it was all a dream, but the feeling never leaves you.

Opening his eyes, Jet felt as though he'd been yanked out of a black hole by bungee cord and dropped just as quickly. The world spun gradually around him, the myriad of light blue hues and white lights swimming in his vision. Rolling onto his side, he struggled to stand up. The weight of his own body worked against him, throwing him forward, his sense of balance skewered by what he assumed was a symptom of being hit with a high powered laser.

That had almost happened to mother once and to the best of his knowledge he should've been dead or fatally wounded. "S-Sam?" He groaned, sitting on his leg. Whoa, he regarded the dimly lit world around him, the icy architecture that stretched high above him, the starless sky and the rolling clouds of gray and thunder.

"Sam!" Jet tried to steady himself with his hand on the ground, energy traveled up his arm, charging throughout his entire body. _Whoa._  Now was just as good as any to have a panic attack, but the energy thrumming just beneath the palm of his hand was incredible. Not just in its rhythm, but its flow. He felt alive, revitalized even! There wasn't a 'taste' to its nature at all, but his sensory receptors, every fiber in his body was acknowledging or defining it as pleasure.

Removing his hand, Jet stood up and regarded the blue veins that traveled all across the ground beneath him in awe. He focused his gaze on the palm of his hand, in place of his simple bare hand was a glove and to that glove, a black body suit that seemed to cover the entirety of his body. Curiously, he pulled at the material on his arm. It stretched accordingly, the same exact illuminated lines were patterned all around his body, only minimalized.

As his eyes shifted from his body he spotted Sam just across the way, stumbling toward him, wearing a body suit identical to his own. "Sam," Jet raised a hand and waved frantically in hopes to catch his attention. Sam turned around, his expression bewildered as Jet closed the distance between them. "Are you alright?" He asked

"More or less," Sam replied. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Last thing I remember is the Shiva counting down and getting blasted with that laser," Jet answered. "I woke up here-" He pulled at his bodysuit. "Wearing this thing."

"You don't have your glasses either," Sam motioned to his face as before turning to inspect his own bodysuit. Were they in any other physical condition the suit might've been a tad too revealing for his liking, but it fit him like a glove (or second skin rather). When he came to in his own respective area of whereversville this was, there weren't a lot of options the mind was allowed to wander after confronting the truth that his father's computer turned on them and shot them with a laser.

Every that happened so far was just like what the story his father told them as kids, the very backbone behind the game TRON and the Lightcycle game. "Jet- Jet," Jet stopped pawing his face long enough to regard his brother with an irritable look when Sam's fist hit his shoulder for a third time. "What?" He blurted.

"I think we're on the Grid," Sam stated.

"That's impossible; I'd sooner believe we got bombed with chloroform," Jet huffed, turning in a half-circle.

"Last I checked chloroform didn't come in lasers, so how would you explain this place? We can't possibly be experiencing a shared dream," Sam argued.

"Well, who says it's a shared dream? I could still be in my bed sleeping, talking to my subconscious which has taken the convenient form of my friend," Jethro answered.

"Who says this is your dream if we're going with that argument?" Sam shot back, in no mood to humor Jet's denial. "Because if this was your dream you wouldn't know about Uncle Flynn's secret basement," Jet returned.

"Fascinating," A voice intoned. "You cannot possibly be the help Ma3a sent me to retrieve." Sam and Jet halted their argument for a moment to look around them; the voice was decidedly inhuman, it sounded as though it had been filtered one too many times and practically borderlined on auto-tune without the melody. "Over here Users," The voice drew nearer to them; Sam was the first catch sight of the pulsating hexagon floating just above their heads, acting as a light in a relatively dim area.

Jet followed Sam's line of sight toward the shape and blinked. "Ha, identification confirmed. So you are Users… fascinating," The shape spoke again, its body fluxing and taking on shape of a Yoshimoto Cube. Jet shared a look with Sam then fixed his gaze back on the light above him. "What exactly are you supposed to be, Tinkerbelle or our guardian angel?" Jet asked.

"I am a Byte," The shape replied, frustrated with the User's incompetence. "Ma3a wouldn't send an audio file to do a Byte's job, let me tell you mister."

"Ah, Jet, you hurt its feelings," Sam grinned.

"Bite me," Jet snapped then paused when the Byte flew in close to his face. "Err, no pun intended there, Byte." Byte lingered then drifted away.

"Look, can you tell us what's going on here? Our system program went a bit nutty laser on us," Sam asked, getting the point of their conundrum. "Where are we?"

Byte zipped around in a circle, creating a halo around itself as it processed information. When he stopped a hologram of Ma3a was projected before them, causing the men to jump away. Jet stood flabbergasted at the sight of her; she looked exactly his mother decades ago, only more glamorous, seductive even. "As much as I can tell, when you attempted to block Ma3a's permissions with a subroutine, she took drastic measures and forcibly digitized your forms. In other words, you are online in the system of the Grid. She needs your help."

"Why does she look like Lora Baines?" Sam inquired.

"I don't recognize the name Lora Baines."

"Err, err, -" Crap, what was Lora's user name? Sam looked to Jet for answers; the elder of the two shrugged his shoulders as lost as he was. Time for a rephrase. "Why does she look like her user?"

"Ma3a was the former avatar of user creatorNA34B," Byte offered a blurred comparison picture of Lora wearing glasses with her hair done in a ponytail. "All programs created by the User take on a likeness of its creator. This is not important. She needs your help."

"No, she needs to tell us where my father is and how we get out of here," Jet interjected.

"Your father?"

"A man named Alan Bradley? He's about yea big, gray hair, wears glasses and speaks with a gravelly voice," Jet poised his hand just below his own head and attempted to construct glasses with his fingers when he poised them in front of his eyes. "Kinda hard to miss, he's a big guy."

"I don't recognize the name Alan Bradley," Byte answered after a moment.

"Well how about Alan-One?"

"There is a User of that designation here."

"Really?" Both Jet and Sam's expression brightened at the news. "Well, where he is?"

"Alan-One is presently located on the throne ship of co-administrator, Clu," Byte informed.

"Clu… Clu!" Sam cried.

Jet raised an eyebrow at Sam's reaction. "Clu?" He repeated.

"Clu, the Codified Likeness Utility," Sam explained. "He was a program my father created after he was fired from ENCOM. He was the character I used to pretend to be when we played with our TRON action figures, remember?"

"Yeah, I recall. But what's so important about it?"

"Don't you see? If this place is anything like how dad described it, then Clu's bound to help us get back. He found Alan after all, he's gotta be on our side," Sam clarified. This would be easier than he initially thought; With Alan's location at hand Jet and Sam could get to him and find some way back to the real world. "Do you know how to get there, to the throne ship I mean?" Sam asked.

"No, the throne ship is a mobile transport, it has no fixable address," Byte explained. "Even if you were to reach it, Ma3a will not return you to the User world until you've helped her."

"Perfect," Jet groused, turning his back. "What exactly does she need help with that we couldn't fix on the outside?"

"The removal a particular program that has become viral," Byte replied, moving on. "He threatens the system stability as we know it. He plans to wipe out the system."

"Okay, vague descriptions are being used here," Jet stated as the two hurried to catch up with the Byte as it began travel through the vacant streets of blue city. "Who is this program she wants us to get rid of-?"

"She must be the one tell you, filenames concerning the matter of viral programs are permission-accessible only," Byte informed the young man.

"And in order receive permissions we have to see her, right?" Sam asked.

"That is correct," Byte answered. "I must take you to the Administrators Office, into the very heart of the city. That is where she'll be."

Jet felt what little enthusiasm he retrained from the myriad of questions asked and answered depleting completely. So they were stranded inside of a computer with no real way of returning to their own world - or reality, however it was regarded here -, literal hostages of his mother's facsimile and on top of that, his father and his Godfather's program were off someplace on a ship that couldn't be traced because it was in motion. As if things couldn't get any worse. "Hey, you alright?" Sam placed a hand on his shoulder, the motion immediately reminding him of his father. Jet nodded. "Yeah, fine," He answered. "Just adjusting, I guess."

Sam scoffed. "Tell me about it; we're taking orders from a floating ball of - a Byte, and- We're on the Grid," Sam allowed himself to laugh a little. "He actually did it. Dad actually made this place a reality."

"Yes, he did," Jet replied, stretching his fingers out and curling them against the palm of his hand. And here I thought he was lying. They walked a while longer through the empty streets, listening to Byte prattle on about whatever bit of data came across his mind; it wasn't exactly comforting, but it distracted them from the ghost town quality of the world around them.

As time went on, the two started to notice pops of colors in the stream lines that wove themselves through the architecture. In an odd fashion programs, landscapes and structures started to pop up like textures tearing across the screen the further they went on into the city. The programs watched them with weary glances, apparent that they were the only unfamiliar element in the environment. Sam and Jet exchanged looks as if to wonder if they were the only ones seeing it. "Uh, Byte, did you see what happened a while back?" Jet asked.

"Yes, it's an unfortunate result of the User's system upgrades. This sector has crashed more than a few times as a result of being unable to process the data being fed into its script," Byte answered. "We should hurry; I don't want to be a part of the system loop when it crashes again." Byte propelled himself forward a little faster through the air, Jet and Sam picked up their pace, surprised that the little program was outmaneuvering them. "System upgrades?" Sam repeated.

"I was just fooling around with the drive for a while," Jet answered. "It's connected to my network at work so I was able to access the net while I was down there. I had to upgrade it with an anti-virus and new firewall just to keep out unwanted surprises. Maybe that's how whoever it was accessed my e-mail address and sent a message to dad,"

"Or maybe it was dad," Sam suggested.

"Hey, I look, I know we're inside a computer and everything, but let's not jump to conclusions," Jet remarked, ignoring the glare that contorted Sam's features. The two said nothing further to each other and continued on the seemingly aimless path to the city, texture tearing becoming more and more frequent the further they went.

Upon reaching the central city, it was hard to keep their mouths from falling open. It was beautiful in a strange and ethereal way. The lights of the buildings floated around them in way that reminded Jet of fog on the water, Sam a room illuminated by candles. There wasn't an open space for miles on end, they were surrounded by buildings and the streets were once again empty.

"We're getting closer to the central part of the city, which means Clu and the Elite will know we've arrived," Byte announced.

"Well, that's a good thing right?" Sam inquired. "Clu can help us reach Ma3a."

"Uh, not exactly-"

_Activating security Rez-in station_

Like something out of star trek seven six beams of light materialized around them at different points of the buildings, Byte spun about in panic, its shape in flux once again. "Black Guard, the Black Guard!" It cried. Sam watched as the bodies of the 'Black Guard' became tangible and physical programs, staffs in hand and discs at the ready.

They stepped forward in unison, like soldiers trained to move and think as one. "Halt, program, you do not have authorization to be in this sector," They spoke in unison, sending a chill down the boys spine. "Run!" Byte screeched at them, coming off like a damaged speaker. One guard aimed it disc at the small program and hit Byte in the side. "Ouch!" Byte drifted down from the air like dead eight-bit character sprite, Jet caught the program as he and Sam bolted from the scene.

The militant footfalls behind them were enough to keep them running at full tilt, but they had no idea where to go without Byte to guide them. Turning the corner they suddenly found themselves confronted with a busy street and startled programs, fleeing the center of the paths as the Black Guards came into view.

_Warning: illegal programs have entered the sector._

_Warning: illegal programs have entered the sector._

"What are we going do?" Sam shouted.

"Besides keep running?" Jet retorted. "I don't know!"

"There!" Sam pointed over to a flashing building with a large neon sign reading 'Grid de la Programs' right above its entrance. "We can hide in there!" Jet didn't waste his breath arguing with Sam on the semantics of how many dead ends a building could lead them to, especially when it was bound to be populated with programs of an uncertain nature.

The two banked left and leapt onto the sidewalk, scaring away more innocent bystanders. Leaping through the open doorway Jet and Sam practically slid down the stairs into the red-lit space, unprepared for the flight of stairs before them. A weak grip on the baluster, Jet landed on one knee and pushed himself up off the ground. Sam followed, arms flailing as he struggled to regain his balance.

Entering through another doorway the two were confronted with a melody of sounds, colors and an ocean of bodies dancing to an off-the-wall the song that sounded like a blend of jazz, electric pianos and wildest of Japanese pop music. Instead of black bodysuits, every program inside wore white bodysuits and contrasting colors to accent their individuality. "We are going to stick out like sore thumbs in here!" Jet muttered to himself.

Sam grabbed him by the hand and pulled him forward. No one seemed to pay them any mind, too caught up in the rhythm of the music to worry about a pair of illegal programs. On occasion, a stray program would reach out and grab their arm, a deliriously happy smile on their face. Sam and Jet scooted away from them and pressed on through the crowd, hoping to get the exit. If this is what an acid trip looked like they really needed to get out of here. As they entered the center of the dance floor, the two were split apart from each other by otherwise grabby hands of ladies in flowing gowns and capes.

Jet was unceremoniously lifted from the ground, dropped and spun about like a princess on her royal inauguration. In that split second he saw the glowing orange circuitry of the Black Guard and the one soldier that caught sight of him. The woman before him had pale skin and reflective blue eyes, her suit was like something out of a vogue magazine; long, flowing, formfitting and shining as though there were great light on her. "Hi, I've never seen you around here before," She told him as she led him across the room in a spin. "You're very pretty."

"Right," Jet breathed with a laugh on his tip of his tongue. His heart pounded against his chest as he searched for Sam and the Guard in the blur of the crowd; the first he wanted to find, the latter to avoid at all costs, but the program's grip on his wrists was like a vice, she wasn't letting go anytime soon. "I'm sorry, but I have to go, I need to be somewhere-" Jet struggled to explain as she spun them about again. "Someplace that's not here."

The female program frowned at him, looking more akin to a puppy dog now. "But you can't leave, we just found you and you feel so nice," Jet cringed at the sensation of her fingers pressing themselves against the lines in his suit and her face pressing against his own. His body reacted the same way his hand had done earlier when he touched the ground; he squirmed away from her, beyond freaked out. Sexual harassment level breeched, he twisted his arms and yanked back.

She held on for a few seconds then released him, a decidedly sinister smile on her face. Jet fell backward right into the arms of another. He heaved himself upright and turned to find himself face to face with his father. "Dad- I, Tron," He stammered. His breath caught in his throat, he stepped away from him and stared at the entirety of the man before him.

He wore a black bodysuit bearing minimal circuitry and a symbol just below his collar too striking to mistake for anything else despite its simplicity.  _Tron._ "Dad?" Jet tried again. The imposter with the youthful visage of his father turned his head slightly to the side and managed a thin smile.

"I believe you've me confused with someone else, program," He answered, making a move to grab him. Jet didn't waste another second trying to convince the man or himself otherwise, he ducked to the right and started forward into the crowd when Black Guard emerged from all sides, staffs primed and buzzing with a kind of heat he didn't want to know resulted in.

Raising his hands above his head, he turned around to face his captor. The program who grabbed Sam bumped her way forward from behind the crowd, Sam stood erect with his arms tied behind his back and his head held back by the smiling woman. The Alan imposter nodded, satisfied with the results.

"By order of Clu, these stray programs - whom gained entrance into the system with illegal permissions - are to be taken and to be judged by the Kernel," He stated, his voice carrying clear across the room. "Anyone here who tries to harbor stray programs will be given no quarter. Let that be understood." The room of dancers and happy programs was deadly silent, no one spoke out against the Alan imposter; they kept their heads down and their mouths closed.

"Gem?"

"Yes, Rinzler?" The creepy lady program responded with a smile.

"I appreciate the help, I'll see to it that you're compensated for damages made to your club," Rinzler said. "Of course, always a pleasure to do business with you," The woman named Gem inclined her head to the Alan-imposter and blew Jet a kiss as he and Sam were escorted from the club. Rinzler led the six Guards out of the club, Jet and Sam did little struggle against them, not wanting to bump into their staff's, poised just mere inches away from all the vital points on their upper body.

Sam regarded Jet's hands, completely empty and pressed against his head; where had Byte gone? Did he drop him or was he deleted? Chewing the inside of his mouth he watched as a vehicle, a Recognizer, lower itself to the ground, already loaded with other prisoners. They were shoved into the vacant spots in the center, Jet watched the shackles fasten themselves around their wrists and ankles like iron cuffs.

The Guard boarded the recognizer and positioned themselves either at the helm of the vehicle or in the idle coffins on either side of the structure. Rinzler was the last to board, stationing himself beside the driver at the helm. He glanced down at Sam and Jet as the recognizer ascended. Neither young man dare speak while his eyes were on them.

He was the spinning image of Alan Bradley - or was it Tron? - and neither one could figure out whether or not this was their friend, father or a program he created that had gone rogue. Rinzler turned away from them, Jet felt the passage in his throat unclench, allowing breath pass without hindrance. Maybe this was the program Ma3a wanted them to get rid of? "This is bad-" Jet started.

"-This is very bad," Sam finished.

"It'll be worse if you don't keep quiet," Snapped a maimed program.

* * *

Alan Bradley sat with his fingers interlaced and pressed against his knuckles. In a room no bigger than a jail cell, he could do nothing but wait for someone to come and get him. The giant programs - ICPs they called themselves - hadn't been all that gentle with him when they discovered him. Standing a good three or more heads above him, they tossed him about and jabbed him with staffs that felt like dog collars on a stick. Thrown onto a recognizer, he could do nothing except watch the expansive city around him fly by at a snail's pace, leaving him at the mercy of his thoughts and the worst case scenarios. Some part of him still couldn't believe this was happening to him. One moment he playing hide and seek with Kevin Flynn's voice, the next he's "on the Grid" being treated like a second rate citizen.

Or worse, a virus.

For all the denial he subjected himself to during his tenure as Kevin Flynn's partner and later a mere 'consultant' for the new age of ENCOM, some part of him always wished the fanciful world of Kevin Flynn was real. Now that he was here, however, he wanted to run back into the warm arms of denial and liars. He could only imagine what his son would think of any of this if he ever managed to get here. It's not as if he knew he would be here, he never announced his presence in his apartment and there was nothing back there in the real world that could possibly lead his son to him in this insane world.

When he was brought face to face with the woman who brought him here, he tried his damnedest not swallow his tongue. The youthful visage of his wife and his own face was staring him dead in the eyes with little or no recognition. She announced to him what his fate would be decided once Clu returned from the Arena. The program known as Rinzler stared him down like a dog held back on a leash. Ma3a - Lora's old program - caressed the top his head as if he were the raven Diablo from  _Sleeping Beauty_ , yet there wasn't the slight bit of indication the was taking pleasure in his or Alan's situation at all. "It's wonderful to see you again Alan-One," She told him. "I can await the arrival of the others when the time comes."

Despite levity of his situation, Alan grinned. "I don't think you'll be seeing anyone besides me, lady."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe not. Regardless, you'll be enough for what we have in mind."

"Where's Flynn?"

"The creator is none of your concern."

Pulling his trench coat closer around him Alan contemplated on the idea of never being found. Would his son discard him like a bitter memory in the same way he did his Godfather? Would Lora cope with his disappearance any better when she learned that Kevin was missing? A million questions raced through his head, none of them could be answered by any simple resolution he provided himself.

"On your feet, program," Alan glanced up from the floor and stared at the ICP standing in the doorway. "Clu wants a word with you."

* * *

**TBC.**


	17. Fifteen: Only the Parts That Weren't Covered In Black Ink (1)

**(1989)**

* * *

"This'll probably be the last entry in a while, so bear with me here, kiddo.

I didn't want to believe it, but I think Tron was right all along. There's something wrong with Clu; maybe it's coding, maybe it's the duties I've given him, but that night on the Seneca proved he and I weren't seeing eye-to-eye on the issue of the ISOs.

Sammy, he thinks they're problems - unchecked anomalies in system causing the Grid to collapse. Now I'll admit, between taking care of you and looking after this place, I haven't been mindful of all the details on either side. The quicker ISOs multiply, the more sectors crash and there are more bugs in program memories than fish eggs in a riverbed.

That's my fault, but there was no need for him to take this kind of action. Not only was it aggressive, I think, if I hadn't been made aware of the situation, things could have escalated.

I can't explain the ISO's learning curve or development. Even with Ma3a's developing sentience as the result of the MCP's code, no program should be able to learn, acclimate or process information as well as they are. I think that's what scares Clu, and I think I should be worried, too." -Kevin Flynn, signing out.

* * *

**(Alan – The Administrative Office):**

* * *

When stepping out of the confined area of imprisonment, Alan was careful not to irritate the already twitchy guard programs with faces akin to that of gumball shaped monsters in an arcade game he played once. Their mass, wide and full of jagged red edges, glowed menacingly and empty spaces where joints would connect limbs to the body, intimidated him as desired.

They stood a whole three heads over his six feet, diminishing his stature to less than average. The crackle of their rods and the seemingly incoherent conversations going on between them kept him on a short leash as to how to act. He didn't know enough about his environment to even attempt an escape and if there was one his mother always taught him it was to assess the area before he did anything, so examine and observe he did. After his encounter with Ma3a, he wasn't sure if the inhabitants of this world were hostile toward newcomers or innately unpleasant towards everything. Further down within the mysterious structure, ceiling, walls and floors were illuminated with florescent tubes of yellow, orange and red. All the kinds of colors one would associate with evildoers or trouble.

Halls were shaped like triangles, creating a stark sense of claustrophobia that gnawed at the back of his mind. The guards lead him to a platform shaped like a hexagon in an open space at the end of the triangle corridor. He stepped aboard without incident and nearly swallowed his tongue when it rumbled to life and began to ascend at a speed that knocked him on his ass.

The guards walked about the platform as though he weren't there, pausing occasionally to scratch their heads or look in every direction before resuming their lazy gait across the four corners of the transport. It was enough to made Alan wonder if he hadn't just bumped his head; maybe he was dreaming this entire scenario up on the basement floor.

The higher they climbed the less prominent the demure colors of red, orange and yellow became; they thinned out as though drained away by water, giving way to a pale blue fluorescence. He kept his hands together as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, in the corner of his eye he watched as the guards suddenly became aware of his movement and regroup in the center, rods at the ready. "No funny stuff, program!" One of them declared, aiming his disc at the side of his head.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Despite himself, the remark escaped him before he could reconsider the spontaneity of his strategy. One jab to the right side of his back sent him crashing to the ground onto his side and retching, his body twitching from the volts that rushed through searching for an outlet. They scattered away from him, shocked by the reaction. "Look what you've done, Spooler! He just lubricated the ground!"

"That's not my fault!" The one named Spooler protested.

"You better hope that wasn't a viral agent," One of the guards grabbed him by scuff of his coat and stood him up; he was still reeling from the pain, lightheaded and nausea. As the elevator reached the supposed top of the building, the dizzy father found himself in the middle of a rounded out room with enough space to fit three planes and tank inside of it.

Across from him stood a man in black suit accented in yellow circuitry, beside him was a woman sitting on the edge of the table in a dress that seemed to rise up from the ground and consume in her body in such a way that it appeared she wore no clothing. He recognized her right off as Ma3a, the program with the uncanny likeness to his wife in her youth. She abandoned the high position of the throne situated behind him and taken to the ground level table. "Sir, we've brought the prisoner as per your request," One of the guard said as they pushed him off the platform.

Alan stumbled forward, struggling to maintain his already weak balance without the full use of his arms; he looked back at the ICP as they brought themselves to attention and saluted the "sir" as he turned to face them. Alan turned to face his captor and felt his tongue go try and eyebrow twitch at the hearty laugh that seemed to follow from Ma3a.

The 40 something year old visage of his friend, Kevin Flynn stared back him with a goofy grin he once detested but missed in more ways he could measure. Flynn, completely amused by the look on Alan's face said, "Alan, you look like you've seen a ghost, man," Arms wide open he approached the flabbergasted developer with a shake of his head. Alan leaned away slightly when Flynn's hands found their way onto his shoulders, his mind stuck somewhere between processing and denying the images in front of him. "Flynn…"

"Alan," The way he inclined his head and grinned at him clearly meant he was making fun of him, but Alan couldn't snap himself out his staggered state of mind. Flynn laughed again, this time slapping him on the side of his arm before he embraced him in a hug. For the briefest moment, the flog cleared from Alan's head long enough to notice the way Flynn's fingers were poking at the center of back where his shoulder blades would meet.

Flynn stepped away from him, one hand on his chin as he observed him like merchant examining merchandise. "You got, old," He said. It wasn't much in the way of sentiment, it wasn't much at all. Righting himself, Alan cleared the knot from his throat and nodded in kind to his friend. "You didn't," Alan said. "How is that possible? You've been gone… missing, presumed dead for twenty seven years."

Once again, Flynn gave a theatrical flourish of his arms as they spread apart to showcase the massive room. "I've been here, man. The whole time, right under your nose and you never knew."

"But, why didn't you tell anyone, try contacting us?" To say the pleasant and nonchalant expression on Flynn's face unnerved Alan would be putting it mildly; between absorbing his new surroundings and speaking to the man before him, Alan's wires were crossed. The constant question of whether or not this was real rang in his head like an alarm. If this was real, why was Flynn behaving so nonchalantly about their entire situation? They hadn't seen each other in two decades, his son, and his family grieved as a result of his disappearance and yet he seemed nowhere near as concerned elated to see him as Alan figured he might be in any other circumstance.

If anything, his expression was that of a man that been expecting his arrival all along. So, Flynn accommodated his expression to better suit his emotions, his eyes becoming hollow reflections of a forlorn man as he began to pace across the room. "I had no way of communicating with the outside world. There's only one way in and out of the system-" He pointed toward the large window that revealed the expanse of the neon city before them, Alan followed the path of his finger directly towards the pillar of light shining in the distance. "-that portal. Before now, I couldn't enter the city. The programs had gone rogue, I couldn't step one foot onto the grid-"

"The Grid?" Alan interjected.

"It's another name for the supercomputer's central information hub; it routes all information processed here in this section; it tells the Administrator of the system where anyone is at any given time, how much energy is being used and where energy needs to be dispersed. I couldn't step onto the grid without alerting them to my presence."

Alan spared a glance behind him, the ICPs were as still as ever, they hadn't moved since retreating from his side. Turning his attention back on his friend, Alan asked, "If you couldn't be here within the city limits, then why are you here now?"

Flynn nodded toward Ma3a who now stood next to the table, her fingers gliding across its surface. "Ma3a here was still connected to the office's processing dock when the programs went haywire. She managed to mask my PID long enough to gain entrance to the Administrative Office."

"Flynn protected to me and together we been working to bring the system back to a functional state," Ma3a finished, joining Flynn's side.

"So, that's why you've never been able to get back? But then, how did you send that e-mail to me?"

"Lately, there have been unexpected power fluxes in the system that caused communication anomalies," Ma3a explained. "Where we weren't able to bridge to another network, the unexpected upgrades given to the system allowed us to detect the other network administering the upgrades…"

"That had to be Jet," Alan interjected suddenly, his eyes lighting up. Flynn's expression became puzzled as he tilted his head to the right. "Jet?"

Alan gave his a friend an incredulous look. "I know it's been a while, Flynn, but you can't have forgotten your godson? He grew up be just like-" He paused, an uneasy smile crossing his lips. "He became a programmer just like us."

The easy smile that once graced Flynn's thin lips returned with an enthusiastic nod his head. "Well, alright, how about that. What about Sammy? I bet he takes after his old man, too, huh?"

Alan exhaled heavily, his mind finally finding some footing in the conversation of their children. "That's a story in and of itself, old friend. But you were saying?" He looked to Ma3a. The program nodded her head and continued. "As I said, we connected to the other network and discovered a wealth of contacts. We had no idea if it would work but we risked it and sent a message to the first address we came across."

"And now you're here," Flynn slapped Alan on the arm again, an appreciative look gracing his features. "Now everything will be alright." Would it? Alan didn't see what his presence could contribute to Flynn's return to the real world, considering they were both in the same situation: stuck in a computer with no probable means of escape.

"There was someone I was supposed to meet, someone named Clu," Alan said, remembering the words of the hulking guard. There was a flicker in Flynn's eyes that Alan didn't quite catch as the man came to stand next to him and drape an arm over his shoulders. "Clu is an alias I've used since I infiltrated the Admin office. It keeps unwanted attention off my back while I rebuild the system."

"But I thought you had control of the system?"

"Mostly; this system's a big place, and there are still a fair share of rogue programs that need to be dealt with before I can safely come out into the open."

"If that's the case, why imprison me, treat me like an invader of the system?"

"It's the directive of the Intrusion Countermeasure Programs," Ma3a stated. "Their job is to isolate penitential threats or nullify them on sight. They were not programmed to sympathize or show compassion to rogue programs."

At Alan's frown, Flynn said, "Hey, I'm sorry about my friends over there, they're not the brightest motherboards on the Grid and like Ma3a said, they were doin' their jobs."

"Flynn," Ma3a said, in a tone that reminded Alan of Lora whenever she was admonishing their friend. "Now would be a good time to begin if we're to succeed in getting you out of the system."

"Oh, right! That reminds me," He led Alan towards the table as Ma3a brushed past them and approached her throne chair. "Tricky thing about data streams and portals-"

"Yes?" Alan inquired, removing Flynn's arm from around his shoulders.

"Once you're inside the system, you need certain type of permission to reactivate them."

"What kind of permission?"

"COMMAND-COM permissions; they're typically located on the identity disc of a user with high command functions. Once, in ENCOM's mainframe-"

"Wait, wait, ENCOM has a Grid too?" Alan interrupted.

"Yeah, man, it's where I went once upon a time, but I'm trying to tell you-"

"Right, sorry. Continue."

"The identity discs in ENCOM's system were only afforded to those who'd participate in the games or protected the system, like Tron. Architects, data pushers or sprites never had them. Here, I created an identity disc to store information processed by all programs here. Not only does it back up their information, but allows for a possible restoration if the original shell is corrupt."

"What does this have to do with me or getting us out of here?"

"Seeing as you're from outside the system, logically, you may have the permissions that would allow us to reconnect the portal to the real world and get us out of here."

"But I don't, so why don't you? You've got a disc and you're arguably the COMMAND-COM of the system. The permissions have to be on yours since you're from our world and not this one."

"No, not anymore. I lost my original disc in a fight. The one I'm using is a backup created by Ma3a."

"So where does that leave us?" Alan asked. "Neither have what you're looking for."

"Temporarily set back," Ma3a said, reminding them of her presence. "However, there are other ways in which we can ascertain the information."

"How so?"

"In your present state the system reads you as an invader. However, if you were accommodated to function as a program does on the Grid, if you were given a lightsuit and identity disc, then perhaps the information is not lost to us."

Alan stared long and hard at the woman poised on the throne across from him, his cheeks turning red at the idea of himself wearing a skintight cat suit. That might've been able to fly in the summer of his youth, but he couldn't imagine he'd look to flattering in a suit like the one his friend was wearing. "Uh, how do we do that, exactly?"

"The ICP will escort you to the armory and bring you back here. The process is short and painless, you needn't concern yourself about your health," Ma3a explained. "And if additional belief is required, the ICPs have received orders not to harm you in any way." In the corner of his eye, Alan watched as the ICP reanimated and approached; he met Ma3a's gaze for a moment, still suspicious of her intentions.

_Activating security Rez-In station_

Alan found his attention pulled away from Ma3a over to the red icon shaped a misshapen beetle shell. The form of another ICP appeared immediately; it rushed over to Ma3a's throne and kneeled. "Ma'am,"

"Go ahead, Yahtzee."

"The Kernel has passed his verdict on the rogue programs- he wants to derezz them," The ICP named Yahtzee informed. Ma3a ignored the suspicious look she received from Alan and focused her attention on Clu, the doppelganger seemed genuinely surprised by the news. "Where are the programs now?" Ma3a asked.

"Presently in the Deleted, Storage and Processing sector," Yahtzee said.

"Supersede his command, assign them to the games," Clu commanded. The ICP nodded in the affirmative and headed back towards the Rez-in station. Alan watched with unconcealed awe as the giant program placed a hand on the interface and disappeared before his eyes in a series of data particles.

* * *

**(Eva – Flynn's Arcade):**

* * *

"Eva, go upstairs and shutdown the second junction box in the kitchen, it should cut off the power here in the basement," Jet told her. Eva stared at him as though he didn't hear him. "Go!" He shook her gently. "Alright, alright," She pulled herself from his grasp and headed for the stairs.

Somewhere between hurrying up the stairs and remembering she was still wearing a robe, Eva realized something went terribly amiss. By no means panicked, she located the junction box in the kitchen next to the back door; unfamiliar with which line to cut the power to, she switched them all off just as there was a power surge right below her feet. In that short window of a time she recognized Jet's scream unison with Sam's cut short, the lights flicker, the alarm clock radio whirl into silence and the morning sun suddenly become the only source of light.

She felt her limbs freeze in place, the sound of her heart kept in pace with the shallow beats of her breath, her fingers remained poised to the switches while she waited for an okay from below her feet. The quiet lingered on for another minute or so before she allowed herself to move. Pressing her fingers to the switches, she turned them upward and jumped at the slight spark. Lights flickered above her, the miscellaneous sounds of arcades consoles and soft hum of kitchen appliances rumbled back to life.

"Jethro?" Eva stepped away from the box and found her way back toward the passage into the basement. "Jet, are you alright?" All was quiet below her when there should've been some type of sarcastic retort of some kind, a pithy comeback to play off of. Remembering to secure her robe, Eva descended down the stairs with rising frustration; she hated to be ignored, worse so, she hated being ignored by him. Entering the workspace of the departed Kevin Flynn, Eva found no one was there. There was not a trace of Jet nor Sam. The office chair was empty, the space in which Jet once stood was vacant. It was though he disappeared.

Two lines of thought struck Eva; the first being that she'd somehow vaporized her boyfriend in succession with his touching something akin to the electrical sockets the computer was unquestionably connected to. The second possibility, however improbable, occurred and the story she remembered Jet recounted to her about what brought "TRON" into world came to pass. Her boyfriend and his abhorrent friend were inside the very computer that rebelled against them in the final moments she was sent to shut it down. She felt stupid for even considering it, but what else could've have happened? They hadn't come up from the basement and there would've been a smoking corpse if he'd been electrocuted.

And if they were sucked into the computer when she switched the power off, was he even still alive?

Her eyes wandered over to the Shiva laser, the ancient machine whirred menacingly as it jerked slightly back and forth like a record needle stuck in a groove. Its line of sight aimed directly at the computer like a sentry watching over a treasure box in a game. Eva stood a ways from its position, there was no way it could turn completely on her - if it was even aware of her presence - but just in case she stepped back into the middle of the threshold. The whole idea was crazy, people being sucked into computers. Certifiable nonsense she was quite above believing in.

Or so she thought.

Running her hand through her hair, she turned her back to the workspace. Taking a couple breaths through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, Eva made short work of the journey back into the lobby of the arcade-turned-apartment. Pressing her hands against her robe, she considered kicking the cinderblock out of the way, let the faux arcade close, but then she remembered she had no way of knowing how Jet got it open. "Fils de pute," Eva wanted to jump out of her skin and forget this entire ordeal; not only was her boyfriend missing, she was entertaining an absurd line of thought.

Heading up to the bedroom, Eva snatched Jet's cellphone from off the nightstand. The first number that presented itself in his personal contacts was Baines, followed by Bradley Sr., Flynn and Annie. Her finger hovered above the Baines and Bradley, unsure of who to contact at the same time she puzzled over the presence of Annie's name as a "personal contact".

Closing her eyes she pressed down on the screen and listened to the pleasant ding! That followed.

* * *

**(Jet and Sam –- Kernel's The Court Room):**

* * *

They sky seemed to suffering from a bout of dissociative personality disorder; it appeared uncertain whether or not it wanted to drown them in the grim and gloomy atmosphere of storm clouds or the cloudless blue sky full of textile shapes and spreadsheets. If Byte was to be trusted it was simply another symptom of the update to the system Jet created. In any case, their present situation was like an equally warped scene from a nightmare. Instead of sitting slouched in a police cruiser, they were standing upright, shackled to the base of the magnet-shaped vehicle, surrounded by armed guard. None of them seemed particularly interested in their prisoners, far too preoccupied with playing the statue or guiding the ship to even mock them.

What kind of bad guys were they?

The only constant by way of the voice was one lowly simp of a man with a bowl haircut; he stared straight ahead, eyes wide, "skin" clammy - or rather glossy and reflective in the fluorescent light of their cage. He mouthed words neither Sam nor Jet could hear, words to his maker or a prayer for a quick death most likely. The other captives were strangely quiet, serene almost. Excluding himself and Jet, there were a total of five prisoners aboard. None of them seemed to be making the fuss that Moe was, either resigned to their fate or waiting for the chance to rebel on their own terms.

Sam couldn't keep his eyes on one thing for very long, there was too much to digest from a visual standpoint and the lights weren't making things any easier. He felt like a raven that'd fallen into a ruby basket, he wanted to touch everything - verify its physical nature and examine it until his eyes strained under the scrutiny of everything. To think this world was created by a single man was mind boggling, terrifying even. All the hours he spent in the care of his grandparents, all the hours the spent wondering when he his father would be finally come home from working…

It all lead to the creation of this place; it was amazing. Looking up from his feet he focused his attention on his friend; Jet's demeanor teetered on the edge of internal panic and a state of shock; for a good portion of his the ride, his goateed friend watched their environment zoom by them with wide blue eyes or slouched against his shackles like someone who'd been beaten one too many times in the head. What did he think of all of this beyond the improbability of it all? As a developer of games, Sam naturally assumed he'd be more accepting of his environment than he himself was. Yet there he was, staring out into nothing, saying nothing and reacting to nothing.

The speed of their recognizer began to slow, the low rumble of the machine shook Jet from his haze. His first action in the land of the living was to test the braces around his wrists. His shoulder bumped Sam's, he looked up relatively surprised to see him. "Hey."

"Hey," Sam parroted. The recognizer came to a halt, the base descending to ground level. The Black Guard disengaged from the cockpit and the compartments on the right and left side. The Guard fell back in a show of respect when Rinzler moved up from the background. Most of the programs flinched when their aggressor approached them, though he wielded nothing but a data pad in his hand. A singular tap on the pad gave birth to the all too familiar screech of a dialup arrangement, disjointed screeches that reminded both Jet and Sam of the long hours of waiting to connect to the net.

The sound stopped as quickly as it started, Rinzler looked none too interested in the results as he declared, "Prisoners six and five report to the repurposing sector." The stony exterior of the program that hushed them on their initial capture suddenly became less gruff as the Guard grabbed him and his partner by the arms and dragged them off to the far right where vehicle resembling a Ferrari awaited them. The wails of the smaller program twisted the boy's intestines into knots. The general definition of repurpose was not lost on them. Its very nature in regards to machines was benign at best, from their perspective.

Yet, when faced with living bits of data, whose reaction was too much like a man begging for a stay of execution, they were forced to reconsider its definition. Jet and Sam shared a look, one that wondered just how badly they'd stepped into it this time. Rinzler approached the next three programs, Moe, a waify female in pink and the pasty faced individual who looked like he stepped out a Bowie video. Rinzler tapped the data pad again, going through process once again. When the dial up noise ceased, Rinzler once again regarded the prisoners with disinterest. "Prisoners three, two and one report to the armory. You've been selected for the Games," The look of mild relief that crossed the faces of the other two programs was outdone by the wail of fear from Moe.

The Guard that stepped forward jutted his staff outward and jabbed him in square in the chest. Moe went limp in a matter of seconds, his body left to the mercy of his captors. Jet and Sam watched with realization that they were the only ones left on the transport yet whose fates were yet to be determined. Rinzler lowered the pad and tucked it under his arm as he approached them; Sam met Rinzler's gaze without hesitation while Jet was content was looking in the other direction. Rinzler studied their body language, intrigued by their reactions toward him. "I believe the two of you have a date with the Kernel," He inclined his head to the remaining Guard and walked away.

"Oh, goodie, a blind date," Jet muttered, his voice shaking. "I can barely keep it in my pants."

"Shut the hell up, Jethro," Sam hissed as their shackles were released. The Guard surrounded them immediately, grabbing their arms they ushered them in Rinzler's direction. They crossed the empty distance between them and the slanted spire. Passing through the orange wall of energy without incident, Sam and Jet felt their jaws drop at the sight of the large and spacious area of the A.O., surrounded by lifts and various other means of transportation and communication the two didn't readily recognize.

Programs moved to and fro through the desired paths like ghosts unaware of their surroundings, they paid little attention to the gaping youths watching them like the newest discovery. "Get a move on, programs," One of the Guard jabbed Jet in the side with his staff, the short burst of electricity caused his arm to jerk and leg to bend; the young man moved forward quickly and was rewarded with shove to the shoulder that sent him off balance.

If his own brushes with the law taught him one thing about authority, it was in the absence of conflict they would undoubtedly create it. Fighting to regain his balance, Jet grit his teeth against the excited movement of the Guard that thrust his staff forward and moved to block the attack. With a swing of his arm the staff went flying from the guard's hand at the same time Sam moved to interfere with the baton pulled from its holster, thrusting his leg forward he hit the Guard in the knee. The resounding crack that followed with the unnatural bend of the Guard's leg as he fell back into a split and his knee crumbled. Their circuits alight with rage, the rest of the Guard closed in around them, ready to beat them into the ground.

"Stop!" The voice bellowed overhead like a crack of thunder, rendering everyone frozen in their place; Sam's fist was mere inches away from the visor of the Guard's helmet, Jet had thrown his arms up to protect his head and the Guard growled in frustration, ready to render the prisoners into bits of data. A video window opened above to reveal a hulking figure of a "man" bearing down on them with transparent eyes rimmed in deep orange-red, arms behind his back in way that demanded respect from his peers.

"Whoa," Sam felt a knot for in his throat at the sight of the thing; the adrenaline rushed out of his system and left his limbs trembling.

"The prisoners are not be harmed until after judgment. What if you set off some dormant trap in their subroutines? We'd all be doomed," He snarled. The video window switched around, the "man" was now shown in a reverse image like a mirror, the window tilted slight to regard the figure of Rinzler just a few feet away from them. Jet felt his throat tighten at just how uncanny his resemblance was to his father and averted his gaze. "Rinzler, control your men better, we can't allow the system to be jeopardized by petty scripts."

"I'll see to that, Kernel," Rinzler replied. The video window disappeared, Rinzler's gaze fixed on the two young men across him, he gestured that they be brought forward. The Guard retracted their weapons, this time when they grabbed the two by the arm neither retaliated against them. Jet and Sam were escorted to the platform surrounded by a half cylinder; Rinzler and the Guard encircled them, unconcerned by their surroundings when a succession of large yellow dots on the wall came to life and stretched above them until it reached the socket design in the ceiling. The glowing socket illuminated the platform beneath their feet, creating a light blinded the users.

Jet barely had time to blink the pain from between his eyes before he realized they were standing in a completely different room. Rinzler and the other Guards were no longer standing around him or Sam, but standing right before them behind a structure that reminded him too much of a courtroom stand, what with the dozens of silent faces staring down at them in the bleachers on the left and right. "Where are we?" He heard Sam muttered.

"To fall back on a cliché? Not in Los Angeles anymore," Jet replied. The "man" from earlier appeared in the center of the stand, his imposing figure all the more intimidating behind a platform, dressed in red/black robes and surrounded by black figures and identical giants sporting a triangle for an eye.

Standing below the podium was a program of similar design, but the only feature separating him from the rest of his brethren was an gray infantile like face with red eyes. In his hand was a long series of tiny orange squares that were gathered together to create what they could only assume was a rap sheet. "Query index 117-J, illegal entry into the system, SF1282; aiding and abiding a known rogue program, attacking enforcers, using subroutines without the proper permissions; highly suspected Trojan programs, Users unknown."

The dotted paper disappeared and the baby-faced program fell back as the larger program placed its muttons on the podium surface. "State your origin and purpose, programs," He demanded. Neither man said anything at first; lying to cover their asses came like a second nature to both Jet and Sam; if they could get away with it, they would, but in a situation that was beginning to mirror Flynn Sr.'s own trip into the computer world, there were no options that lead them to a positive outcome. They could lie about their true nature and be thrown into a game, or tell the truth and still be thrown into a game.

Or worse, destroyed if was possible to kill a User on the Grid. The program's hands slammed down onto the podium, Sam was the first to speak. "Look, I'm sure you get this a lot," He began with an uneasy smile on his lips, "but we're not here to cause any trouble. We're just looking for-"

"You're really making a huge mistake here-" Jet interjected in agreement.

"Mistake? Ha!" The program slammed his fist down onto the podium and learned forward. "If I had a bit for every time a program fed that line to me. State your creation date or you'll find yourself being pulled apart by the Gridbugs sitting happy in the Seneca sector."

"Are we allowed a moment to get our stories-"

"Denied! Corroboration between rogue programs is prohibited. State your creation date or be derezzed on spot," Kernel bellowed.

"We don't remember!" Sam offered quickly.

"Ha! Every program remembers their creation date; it's hardwired into their core!" The baby-faced program rebuked with a chortle.

"Hey, we know it sounds crazy, but we can't remember a thing," Jet answered with a look of contempt on his face. "We didn't- _don't_ even know where here is." Kernel and Rinzler shared a look of disbelief, the bigger program's circuitry flickering with the telltale signs of budding anger while Rinzler was content with staring the two men down.

"You expect me to believe that?" Kernel inquired, his distorted voice lowering by the second.

"Yes, because it's the truth," Sam answered his voice just as strong. The Kernel continued to stare the boys down with no remorse; he rolled his shoulders as his eyes wandered their broad forms. He stopped the moment he noticed a twitch underneath the eye of the one the facial hair.

Liars, the lot of them.

"And how do you plead to the charges against you?"

Jet and Sam shared a look for a brief second, and then replied, "Not guilty," in simultaneous agreement.

"Very well," The Kernel leaned back and slammed his hand down onto the podium once more. "I hereby announce your fate is deresolution and for the good of the system."

"You can't do that!" Sam cried. "That's not how the justice system works."

The Kernel regarded the sandy brown young man with contempt. "You're to be detained to the Deleted, Storage and Processing sector, your deletion date is 4-23-10, 0200 hours. Case dismissed!" Neither man had a chance to object further to the ruling. The moment their lips so much as parted, the ground beneath them opened up to swallow them whole.

The weight of their bodies worked against them, Jet collided with Sam like a sack of potatoes, the pain radiating through his body left him unable to determine whether or not he'd broken anything. They tumbled through the darkness for seconds too long his liking before coming to a sudden halt by the very force of gravity. Their surroundings weren't too much unlike the courtroom. Full of bright oranges and reds, the Deleted Storage and Processing sector reflected the innards of a computer more so than the blue metropolis above them. They were let down gently onto the ground just as two ICPs appeared before them in conjunction with a monotone female voice.

_Activating Security Rez-In Station_

_Activating security Rez-In station_

"You must be the programs Ma3a told us about," One of them said, snatching Sam up by the arm. Sam cried out in pain at the vice grip around his forearm and attempted to push him away. "Hey, quit that!" The ICP sounded more put out than angered as he lifted Sam and threw him against the wall. Jet stumbled to his feet and raised his hands in surrender, too sore to even bother retaliating. "That's right, program, no funny stuff," The ICP adjacent to the other grabbed and dragged him forward. Despite himself, Sam was unable to control his temper and continued to struggle in the ICP's grasp.

Jet watched, caught somewhere between embarrassment and fear for his friend's life as the two went at it, Sam completely absorbed in humiliating the ICP that seemed generally unaware verbal and physical abuse wasn't something he had to put with up from a prisoner. Their bickering intensified the further inside the complex they went, Jet kept his attention on his friend, missing the enthusiastic voice from the side that was silenced with a random shot from the ICP leading him behind his partner. The corridor traveled was long and narrow, leaving little space for anyone walking alongside the ICPs' hulking figures.

The ICP gave them little to no warning of where they were taking them; one moment they were being herded forward, the next thrown sideways into a cell that barely had space for two. Sam scrambled to his feet and rushed the ICP as they stepped out of the way. The barrier flickered to life in an instant; Sam's body collided with the thin yellow filter and received a shock strong enough to knock him back into bench behind them. "Sam!" Jet rushed to his friend's side as Sam slumped down to the ground; in any other situation he would've been dead, instead the luminescent lines of his suit had been snuffed out, his eyes blank and staring upward. Jet dare not touch him, his hands shaking at the very sight of him.

"S-shit…" He glanced away from Sam, the ICP pointed and laughed. "That'll teach you, program!"

* * *

**(Quorra – Deleted, Storage and Processing sector):**

* * *

Postponed.

The second round of the game had been postponed, the combatants returned to their cells to await further instruction.

There was an unspoken rule within the gaming community of the Arena. Games were never stopped, even when violations occurred, the match was expected to continue on until someone came out on top as the winner. So when the lights of the arena flickered, the audience plunged into darkness and the platform rebooted itself, Quorra could only assume the system itself had been compromised. Instead, the holding carriers returned armed with Black Guard to usher them back into their holding cells.

There was nothing right about this situation at all, thought Quorra. Once she was thrown into the cell, she had little to think of outside of her own escape. At the herald of the commotion and the excitement of her former opponent she pondered the presence of the combative programs that were hauled away; the ICP rarely took insults from their captors, programs were often derezzed before they reached their cells if ICPs were feeling particularly surly. Yet, they allowed the disrespect to occur.

Curious.

Pacing the small space of her cell she took a moment to check on the rabbit-program. He sat curled up in the corner, ears pressed over his head and face hiding behind his arm. The warning shot from the ICP scared him into obedience it would seem, he was shaking like a leaf. As she began fiddling with the gloves on her hands, Quorra started toward the wall. Halfway toward the wall the familiar click-clack of heeled boots against a hardlight surface brought her attention back to the barrier that kept her from freedom.

Mercury stepped into her line of sight, looking no worse for wear from when she last her. The automatic sensation of dread and grief struck Quorra square in the chest as the barrier came down and Mercury brought her baton forward. Standing her ground, Quorra kept her arms at her side and stared her straight in the eye. "What do you want?"

"Randomizer just assigned you to the games," Mercury stated.

"And?" Quorra snorted. "I've still got another round to go before I'm derezzed."

"And, just like last time, you've the honor of getting rid of some illegal programs," Mercury elaborated. "Rumor has it that their User mandated Trojans." Quorra felt her processing pressure lower at the cold and lifeless smile on Mercury's blue lips. Trojans were bad news; even if a program destroyed one, the chances of coming out of the altercation unscathed were minimal.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Quorra's part of the story is told out of sequence: Chapter 10-12's first half the aftermath of her capture, the second half is the aftermath of the first round of the Arena Game and Chapter 15-13 is the beginning of the first round.

 **Next:** "Our Foe is More Devious than We Imagined (2)" – The postponed Arena Games resume with its newest combative, Alan Two and Unknown.


	18. Just Your Undivided Honesty (Interlude III)

**(May 1990):**

* * *

Sam,

You probably won't ever get a chance to read this, I'll probably chicken out and tear this up. So, where do I even begin? Mom says before I even try writing anything else out, I should say sorry.

So, I'm sorry.

Looking back, I can't believe I punched you. They say hindsight is 50/50, and I feel like the biggest ass jerk. It was stupid and I should've realized what you were going through, but I was too wrapped up in me.

What about me? What about me, Uncle Flynn. How could you leave us all like that? How could leave ~~me-~~ you like that? I shouldn't have bothered you. And even if I tried to explain this, it still doesn't fix that I said some pretty awful things.

I'm sorry, Sam.

I'm sorry for what I did and I'm sorry I never owned up to it. And if I'm sticking to my guns of never sending this, I probably never will. I want everything to go back to how it was. I us to be friends again.

Tron and Clu, the dynamic duo.

Dad's sending me a Summer Camp next week. Says I could use the time to myself and burn off all this energy.

I don't want to leave though. Mom only has a few more weeks before she has to go and I don't wanna miss it at a stupid camp.

Your friend, Jet Bradley

**PS:** Since I won't be coming back until next month, Happy birthday.

* * *

Jet,

When Lora came over, asked me to read this, I missed you at the bus stop, so I couldn't ask you about why you had your mom sending me your crappy letters.

Then I read the letter.

I still think you suck for punching me, but I get it, I do. That day I came to see you, I was at Dr. Arnspiger's first. I told him about the problems I was having at home, with Alan, you and the folks. I was feeling guilty for ignoring you, but I expected him to side me with, told me he understood what I was going through.

You know what he said instead? He just told me you were lonely, that you missed your parents.

So when I came to apologize to you, it was just for ignoring you. Then you accused me of stealing your dad and it didn't hit me until now how that must've felt for you. Here I am, missing my dad and you think yours isn't spending the time with you.

On second thought, I still think it's kinda silly. I mean, Alan came home all the time, and my dad hasn't. Probably never will, but I get it now.

Can you totally see me getting it? Honest, I really get it.

You were lonely and I just compounded things.

So, since I'm sorry for being a big jerk, too, can we call a truce? Maybe go back to being friends?

Your friend,

Sam Flynn

**PS:** I probably won't send this letter to you either. I'll put it someplace Gram will _never_ find it. Like on top of my desk or something.


	19. Fifteen: Our Foe is More Devious than We Imagined (2)

_Initiate Activation Sequence_

There wasn't anything to do except wait. Since the guards left him to devices, Jet tried to look at anything except the prone form of his friend lying prone against the bench behind him. He had a dead look about him, even if he could see the rise and fall of his chest. The way he slumped forward and his chin rest on his collar bone unsettled him. He should've done something to curb Sam's temper, even if it meant he'd get prodded in the process. At the rate they were going, they were going to be dead before they even found Clu, if they could find him.

_Downloading YORI matrix_

The stories he remembered his Uncle Flynn telling him and Sam made this place sound so incredible; a kid's fantasy come true when he wanted to run away from life. It was the one the first times he ever envisioned his father a true blue superhero, too. Because Flynn had been so insistent that his parents allow him to use their likeness for Tron and Yori, he spent a great deal of his time as kid feeling like the coolest person on his block. Being here now, face to face with his father's doppelganger, trapped within an decrepit city straight out of _Blade Runner_ , Jet found himself reconsidering everything he'd ever been told. The vague promises of being brought to this so-called magical place no longer sounded appealing in the nostalgia hazed memories of childhood.

This was hell, hell for the falsely accused to be dramatic.

_YORI EXE Online…_

Pressing his back against the warmth of the wall behind him, Jet kept his arms folded and legs spread out before him and his head tilted upward and against the wall. Time seemed immobile in this place in the sense that nothing progressed or changed any kind of level scared him. Would they die here? Would anyone realize or care they were missing? Squeezing his eyes shut, Jet gnashed his teeth against the pain that sliced through his eyes into the back of his head. He paid no mind to the sudden illumination of the florescent circuitry in his suit, starting from the center of his chest. Jet tried to let his mind wander off into the dark recesses of his mind - to the places where his mind was void of any thought. It proved difficult, every corner of his mind seemed occupied with static and fear, it wouldn't allow him to not think of his and Sam's current predicament. To ignore it would be to succumb to the plans fate drew out, so dictated his mind.

Lowering his chin, Jet opened his eyes and vision was immediately overwhelmed by the light coming from his right hand, now propped on his knee. Instinctively, he turned his hand so that his palm was facing the ceiling; the light intensified for a second then died out. Sitting in the center of his head sat a woman in white with a pixie haircut and a striking resemblance to his mother. She stood and stretched her limbs. "Finally! I thought I'd never get out of that subroutine." She smiled at him and naturally his first reaction to the otherwise non-aggressive show of kindness was to scream and shake his hand as though he were ridding himself of the undesirable side effect of getting off.

"Please stop!" Jet yelped at the sharp spike of pain that bit the back of his neck, he scrambled to his feet and kept his hand a fair distance from his body. The woman reappeared, her expression less than amused and her stance authoritative. "I'm not going to hurt you, Jet," She declared, hands falling to her hips. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to kill me, considering I helped you."

"H-helped me?" Jet balked. "When did you help me?" The hell was this, punishment for being rotten to his parents? This place was far too backward up for his liking.

"Why, when you arrived, of course," She answered. "I'm Byte, was Byte."

"But, Byte was-"

"Jet, what's-?" Jet's heart skipped a beat at the sound of Sam's bewildered voice.

"Flynn!"

* * *

Somewhere the in lull of his mind, Sam knew he'd done something stupid. Nothing about his present state of being felt right; he was stiff, his shoulder burned like he'd been dragged across a stretch of desert and the darkness behind his eyelids were decorated with little data streams he could only assume were a culmination of zeros and ones processing information on a loading screen.

Yet when he "opened" his eyes, he could feel the muscles around his socket stretching to their limit which let him know they were already open. The world came into focus like a camera auto adjusting to its environment, his left arm came into view - he flexed his fingers a couple times to check his responsiveness; he could feel himself breathing, he could hear breath exit and enter his mouth, even his feet were moving by his command.

So far, so good he thought, shifting his shoulders. His shoulder blades were pressed up against the edge of a bench he remembered seeing when they were thrown into the cell by the giant orange/red programs. The memory of past events came rushing back to the forefront of his frazzled mind until he finally had to kick himself in the mental rear end.

He'd deliberately picked a fight with the guard that held all the cards to his fate; between being chased down, poked, prodded and mishandled like an abused package; some kind of logic kicked in and reasoned he was due a moment disobedience. He'd been fortunate enough that his captor didn't decide him to run him through with a staff and teach him a lesson, instead he'd let Sam's rage take him out. And there he lay, a consequence of his own anger and still alive.

The quiet made him uncomfortable. Dreading the idea that he as by himself in the cell scared him, the feeling ran down his spine like a cat slinking through the space between his legs. Shifting his head to the left, his eyes wandered the small space. He spotted Jet right off, standing upright, one arm stretched outward while he paced in a half circle listening to whatever stood a foot tall on his open palm.

Far be it from his imagination to conjure up the all too familiar sounds of Tina Turner's "Private Dancer" the longer he stared at the apparition with the enthusiastic body language. He wasn't seeing things; there really was a person - a woman - standing on his friend's palm. "Jet, what's-?" Sam's voice teetered on the edge of raspy, his throat raw with the same pain that ran down his spine. "Flynn!" Jet's response was immediate, his palm closed and the woman disappeared, he crossed the short distance between them in two long strides and kneeled before him. The look on Jet was the 'happiest' he'd seen his friend since meeting Byte.

Without indication Jet wrapped an arm underneath Sam's and helped him off the ground, Sam's legs responded clumsily, kicking out when they shouldn't, barely responding when he tried to press his feet into the ground. "You idiot, I can't believe you did that," Jet placed him on the edge the bench, Sam let out a tired huff as his vision began to swim with spots. "Nice to see you, too, Jet," Sam groused, pressing a hand to his head. "How long was I out?"

"I don't know," Jet said with a shake of his head. "Half hour, an hour? I can't tell in this place."

"Jesus, I was out for an hour? Why didn't you stop me?" Sam groused.

"Like I'm supposed to know when you're gonna go kamikaze on an energy field," Jet balked at the question. "And where do you get off picking fights with things as big as the hulk?" Jet shoved Sam hard enough to push him over. "They could've killed you." More than a little put out by his friend's behavior; Sam righted himself somewhat and stared him down. "Well, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were worried about me, Jet," He smirked.

If it were possible for Jet's eyes to become any wider, his pupils any more dilated, they probably would be no larger than the black spots cartoons call eyes. He seemed calm for a moment, turning his head away from his friend with a scoff. They sat in silence for a moment, Sam waiting for another reprimand so as to ease the tension between them.

It never came.

His fists shaking from the sudden increase in his adrenaline, Jet stood up and began to march around in a half circle. Stepping away from the wall he thrust his leg out and smashed the sole of his foot against it. The circuitry on the wall sparked with electricity and let out a low whine of what sounded like pain. "Of course I was worried, Sam! Do you have any idea where we are?! You're lucky they didn't kill you, moron!" The volume voice barely matched the sudden vibrancy of his suit and the redness of his face.

Sam's eyes shifted nervously to the side. "Jet, calm down, I was only joke-"

"This isn't a joke, Sam," He snapped. "Or haven't you noticed there are programs trying to kill us!"

"Yeah, I know, but-"

"Not people, not flesh and blood, but damn zeros and ones! By all accounts this shouldn't be possible, but here we are and you're not helping matters by flipping out on hostile p-programs!" Jet fell back against the wall he abused with his foot and hid his face behind his hands.

"Hey!" The rapid footfalls of the ICP put both men on high alert; it came into view, brandishing his staff in a manner he believed was threatening. "If you don't keep it down-"

"Y-yeah, sorry about that-" Sam shrugged his shoulders. "My friend is just a little overwhelmed by our situation. We'll behave, promise." The ICP gave the blonde a look of suspicion, not entirely convinced by the pleasant smile on his lips. "Well… you better! Or you'll be sorry." For all their mass and power, these guys weren't incredibly strong on the death threats. Sam waited until he was certain they'd moved far enough out of range to focus on his distressed friend. Sam rose from the bench and kneeled in front Jet. A hand on the shoulder brought Jet out from behind his hands, Sam put on another uneasy smile. "You alright?"

"Y-yeah, sorry about that," Jet breathed, truly begrieved by his behavior. "I didn't mean to freak out, I just can't- I hate this place, it doesn't make sense."

"I wasn't making fun of you, man, honest. I'm not exactly thrilled we're here either," Sam explained.

"Sam, there are programs walking around with the faces of my parents, I'm not exactly sure how I'm supposed to cope with that without going nuts," He grumbled. "I mean- how do I know that's not my father?"

"You mean that Rinzler guy?" Sam asked. "Well, he looks about thirty or so years younger than our Alan so it's a safe bet he's not Alan-Alan."

"Y-yeah," Jet sat upright against the wall and extended his right hand. "Him and this thing-" When Jet opened his palm, Sam was taken aback by the sudden manifestation of the woman he'd seen earlier when he came to. "I am not a thing, I am a person," The woman turned to give Jet an admonishing look before she regarded Sam with a smile. "Hello again, User."

"Again?" Sam raised an eyebrow at her. "Whaddya mean, again?"

"According to this thing, it's Byte. That monotone cube that led us into the city," Jet deadpanned.

"You aren't serious?" Sam stared at her again, thinking back on the short tempered and detached cube in constant motion. "This thing was - is your mom?"

"Don't call it that," Jet snapped. "It's not my mother, it just looks like her."

"Technically speaking, I still am a Byte, but I'd prefer to be referred to as Yori. It was the filename my progenitor, the original Yori, created me with," She responded, by no means offended by the sudden flare up of anger. "This form was easier to process from the information I obtained from Jet."

"Process?" Sam and Jet repeated in unison.

"When I was damaged by the Black Guard, my code was absorbed by your subroutines as viable data to reuse. For all intents and purposes, the program I was indeed destroyed, but the original backup code I was created with survived. I simply chose the form my progenitor as Alan Two remembered her."

"So you're a backup of Yori, who's a backup of the original Byte, who was destroyed when we were attacked?" Sam inquired for clarification.

"Yes," Yori replied.

"But, how are you able to access my memories? I'm not a program," Jet stated.

"At present, you are program-like," Yori replied. "I was only able to access your information because you lack the awareness necessary to block unauthorized access into your mainframe or PID."

Jet didn't like the sound of that; he shared a worrisome look with Sam who in turn asked, "You mean we can be hacked?"

"In a sense, yes," She answered. "They'll need to be in close range in order to cause substantial damage, however."

"Are there any specific places they need be to hack a program?" Jet pressed.

"No, anywhere on the grid itself is fine, with the exception of the deleted, storage and processing units, data stream transfer and the outlands," She clarified. "According to Flynn, as a User, you're unique complexity allows you interface with the grid in ways that programs cannot. If you possess the ability to manipulate the system, you can avoid unauthorized access into your mainframe. However, as you are now, if you aren't mindful of your proximity to enemy programs, they can disable - or worse corrupt you," She explained.

"Flynn," Sam whispered. "Kevin Flynn?"

Byte smiled and nodded. "Yes, that's right. You know of him?"

"He's my father," Sam reached out and grabbed Jet's wrist in fear that he would move it. "If the stories he told us were right, you and Tron were his friends, right?"

"Yes, we were great friends - the best," She replied. "Why, it was only yesterday when he told me he had to leave to take care of son, Sam - oh, my goodness." Yori's hands flew to her mouth; she stared at Sam with childlike awe and excitement. "You're the Son of Flynn?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders in faux modesty; it'd been a long time since anyone regarded the name Flynn with any kind of respect, let alone saw him as some kind of celebrity to be admired. "Yeah, I just said that he was my father," His gaze shifted up to Jet, the older man's expression was a mixture of curios and uneasy, not completely warmed to Yori and her exuberance (understandable considering the circumstances). Yori bowed slightly and continued to smile at the boy. "It's an honor to finally meet you, Son of Flynn. I've heard so many great things about you."

"Thanks, I guess," Sam shook his head, "I never thought you were real."

"Not real?" Yori smiled. "We're as real as the world Flynn lived in."

Jet avoided her gaze when she turned to look at him, a not so subtle cough following. Wanting to keep the conversation going, Sam asked, "Do you know where my dad is?" The sound of footfalls approached their cell again, cutting off Yori's would-be answer.

Yori's image flickered away as he closed his fist and stood at the same time as Sam. Two ICP stepped into view, shifting about on their feet like bouncers ready to pounce on their victim. Instead, the ICP accessed the panel above the bit processing the hardlight barrier and deactivated it. Sam and Jet watched the barrier dissipate in a few flickers, the space of their cell suddenly less restricting despite the presence of a guard. "Alright, programs, break time is over," He said. Hesitant to step outside their prison, Sam and Jet leaned forward slightly to gleam the outside environment. "And then what, guy? I thought we were supposed to be derezzed or something," Sam drawled.

"Change of plans, decreed by Ma3a," The ICP answered. "You'll proceed to the data stream on your left at the end of the hall and be taken to the armory wherein you prepare for the games." Rather than allow another incident to break out, Jet took the first step out of the cell, mindful of his body language around the ICP as he followed the directed path. Sam followed suit, eyes forward and lips pressed against each other.

They fell in line with other programs being ushered out of their cells toward the platform located on the left. It didn't take a genius to figure out what "the games" were. All things considered, it was probably one place Jet could most likely excel, theoretically speaking. Of the two of them, Sam was the still the better fighter, he wasn't afraid of getting hit and improvising.

Jet, on the other hand, was a stickler for accuracy, and while he knew the basics of a quick left-right-dodge combination, he was no master at the ducking part. If they were strictly using discs, on the other hand, maybe he'd be better off. He was pretty ace at Frisbee as a kid; the game can't have changed that much since reaching his near-thirties. Behind him, Sam leaned in close and asked, "What do you think they'll have us play?"

"Pong if we're lucky," Jet replied, eliciting a laugh from the program in front of him. The boys paused to regard the lithe figure in front of them with some curiosity; she turned to face them with a pitying expression. Sam had to reframe from making any sort of verbal note of approval in regards to her appearance, Jet just smiled. "The games we play here aren't so tame, programs," She said. "If you're lucky, your opponent won't drag your eventual deresolution out."

"Basically, hope to die really fast," Jet deadpanned. The female program flashed them a smile and nodded. "You catch on fast."

"We try to," Sam replied, a response which widened the smile the woman was giving them. The final program before her filtered through the data stream, she stepped onto the platform, she turned and met Sam and Jet's gaze one last time, her head tilting to the side in curiosity. Far too accustom to the appraising gaze, neither man paid it any mind and watched as she was engulfed in light, spirited away.

"Get a move on, programs," The giant guard behind them commanded. Jet stepped onto the platform, the anxiety choking the rationality his mental facilities. This was it, he was about sent to the games, an apparent death sentence for all who participated. He wasn't quite sure what he was expecting with the data stream, maybe something akin to the teleporter in _Star Trek_ or something other than being dropped into a hole.

Instead he blinked and one moment Sam was staring back at him, the next he was standing in a spacious oval shaped room armed with one pedestal in the center of the room with an octagon shaped platform only slightly raised above the smooth floor. Ahead of him he saw the woman from earlier walking towards a bloom of light at the end of the hall.

"Step onto the holographic platform to proceed."

Jet blinked, surprised by the direction given the disembodied voice of Yori. "Hey, I forgot all about you," He declared. "You'll forgive me if I'm not surprised, Alan Two." Not one to argue with the voice of his mother, he stepped down from the data stream platform and approached the holographic pedestal. "How do you use this thing?"

"Wait and see," Was all Yori said. Jet had little choice but to do as she said, but the wait was not long, however. The four chambers stationed on the walls of the armory let out a hiss as they were brought forth from the indention of wall. The doors opened slowly to reveal women dressed in white, they seemed to wake from kind of slumber - their pasty white eyes were offset by the black of their irises, creating an unsettling kind of feeling in his stomach as they stared at him. They stepped out of their chambers like robots, approaching him at alarming speed.

One of them removed the disc from his back, the others surrounded him. Before he could protest, the palest woman of the group placed a hand on his chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. She looked him over, head tilting to the side much like the woman from before had done earlier. "This one has done our job for us, but the synthetics of his lightsuit are different," She flexed her fingers against his chest. "Very different." Her sisters seemed to agree as they grabbed his arms and raised them over his head.

"Never you mind," The woman who stole his disc returned with a placid smile on her face, placing the disc on his back. "Mirroring is complete; your disc is activated and synchronized. You may proceed to the games," Unique in her appearance, the brown eyes of the ebony-skinned siren who maintained the look passivity as Jet attempted to stare over his back. The disc spun for a second or two before coming to a halt, an almost staccato like sequence rang in his head as his vision blurred and sharpened.

With a shake of his head he asked, "So, what did you just do exactly?" The brown eyed woman smiled at him, choosing to remain silent. They retreated from the platform, walking backward back to the chambers that awaited them across the room. "Okay," He whispered to himself. Once the chambers returned to the walls, Jet stepped down from the platform and approached the corridor ahead of him. Gut instinct told him to move in the opposite direction, but there was nothing waiting for him there except a jail cell. Swallowing against the knot forming in his throat Jet walked brisk towards the light, one hand raised slightly before his eyes.

Like something out of an illusion, the bloom of light vanished and gave way to a dark compartment. From behind he heard a slam - the door he never realized was there closed, locking him inside what was a very tight compartment. "Great, Jet, you just walked right into a mouse trap," He muttered to himself. Ahead of him he could make the blurry outline of several other individuals by the different colors chosen to illuminate their suits. Weary of the pane in front of him Jet did very look to get a better look at his environment. Wherever this was taking him, he hoped wasn't anything like the Aperture Science Enrichment Center's incinerator.

"If I'm right, the Siren should have upgraded your disc with a current version containing the necessary data to participate in the games," Yori's voice startled him out of his train of thought, Jet reached behind him, his fingers gripped the inner edge of the disc. "Jeez, you mind letting me know when you're gonna do that?!" He hissed, heart pounding against the hand pressed against his chest.

"Depending on the game, you can use secondary weaponry aside from the disc, like a rod, shield, staff or rifle," Yori continued to explain. "However, they cannot be used for retaliatory purposes in the arena."

"How come, if you don't mind my asking?" He asked.

"I don't," His mother's humor coming across in her tone. "Any attempt at open hostility with the weapons used in the games will have you derezzed by Rinzler, one of Clu's elite guards."

"The guy that brought us in?" The guy who looks like my father? "That is correct," Yori answered. Jet kept his disc at hand as the dark world ahead of him began to fall away from his line of sight, giving way to animated background of bodies situated around what he could only assume was the arena. "Am I gonna be okay, here, Yori?" It was a rhetorical question as a far as he concerned, but it didn't hurt to get a second opinion.

"Your survival depends largely on your skill with a disc and basic inventory of defense," Yori informed. "Can you fight?"

"Does a mall baby eat chili fries?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand the question."

"Eh, that's okay, I really wasn't looking for answer," Jet sighed as the carrier came to a stop. "Just a lie."

"A false reassurance in other words," Yori deadpanned.

"Or that, that works too," Jet chuckled.

* * *

"...And, after a long intermission, we are back programs and bureaucrats! The next exciting around of the Arena Wars continues! Our original roster remains, with just a few new opponents facing off against each other! I gotta tell ya, guys, you're gonna love this new round!"

"Hmm… an announcer, that's new," Yori observed. "Very curious." Jet couldn't whether or not he thought it a curious addition, it being his first game. His carrier docked with a loud hiss, the glass pane lowered, opening the path to a significantly larger and open space where four other programs waited for him, standing on circular platforms positioned around the room, creating a circle within a circle. Clear across the other side of the room, a man waved casually, and Jet, despite the miracle cure his eyes had undergone, couldn't make him out so he just waved back. Stepping out of the carrier Jet's averted his gaze skyward. The ceiling walls around them must have went on for miles before touching the ceiling, it was crazy.

"Our latest victims- I mean, combatants are newbies here, so give a warm welcome combatants fourteen and fifteen! They'll be kicking off the aborted second round with a very, very special game: Zero-G Disc Wars!" There was a collective gasp from the group followed by a roar of overexcited cheers.

"Oh, dear, not this," Yori's voice barely registered above the cheers, and Jet had no time to ask what she said.

"Yeah! ZGDW is a four way survival competition where the last two players to survive deresolution move on to the next stage."

Across from Jet, combatant fifteen, Sam, balked at the excitement that echoed around him from the crowd. No way was this something his dad approved of. No gravity, no sense of solid balance. They were gonna get slaughtered in this.

"Alright, happy hunting programs; may the best processor win!"

The shift in gravity was almost immediate; Sam stumbled when the platform beneath them shuddered and began to turn like a disc on a turntable. It made a complete 360 turn before stopping. The fine lines woven into the ground began to glow; Sam looked to Jet, hoping he'd recognize him. He didn't, too absorbed in what appeared to be a conversation with himself.

Grabbing his disc from behind, Sam had little warning or chance to prepare hisself for the sudden upheaval from the ground. It felt like he was falling up, arms and legs and twisting wildly as he fought to gain control of his body. Swinging his momentum what he believe was downward, Sam watched the world tumble in a wash of sounds and colors; his feet collided with a hard surface and he pushed away.

The laws of gravity already broken, Sam could only watch on in a mixture of awe and fear as splashes of light whirred around him in crescent arcs, his opponents desperate to hit something other than them. Sam fought for some semblance of control over his body, but little same.

He couldn't find Jet anywhere in the groups that chosen to get up and close and personal with one another. He could see why his father banned this particular game; there was no telling who'd be hit, the chances of everyone surviving were presenting themselves as incredibly slim.

He prepared to throw his disc to the mercy of winds when he saw a flash of light erupt in the corner of his eye. In a matter of seconds a fully realized opponent was reduced to mere cubical of blue light and the object of his demise was hurtling toward him.

"Use the Identity Disc to deflect enemy attacks," Byte's voice came in loud and clear from somewhere, he didn't think to look for it. Instead he sent his disc flying in the other's direction and prayed his blind aim wouldn't fail. The two discs clashed, they moved so quickly Sam had no idea where his own went as they spun off into the environment, ricocheting off the surface of the arena.

Like clockwork, the discs systematically sliced into two unsuspecting programs, reducing to bits of light. Sam watched the spectacle with some curiosity, unsure if he should be troubled by their "deaths" or fascinated by the very nature of their demise. The zero gravity kept their particles suspended, the what few players that survived were surrounded by a sparkling spectacle that reminded him of water frozen in a photograph.

"Wow, already we're down to just three programs! And wouldn't you know it, the viruses are still functioning!" The overly enthusiastic announcer's voice took a turn for the dark. Sam twisted around at the prick of a ping on his neck; his disc returned him in quickly. Automatically his hand reached up and snatched from the air, his fingers fumbling around its inner edge. Above him he spotted Jet making his way toward the third opponent.

* * *

Making decisions on behalf of her personal happiness and the family were decidedly rough. On one hand there was the obvious choice; the need to maintain stability in the family was more important than what she wanted to do. Her pregnancy and subsequent marriage put things in a sharp perspective, one that ultimately told her there was more riding on her plate than just herself and Alan now. She had a baby to look after now and ENCOM, at the time, was not going able to help her do that. She wasn't into games like Alan or Flynn, her primary field of expertise was physics.

The digitalization lab, once Flynn was promoted to CEO of the company and Gibbs retired, became more and more useless in the particular arena that Flynn capitalized on to make his company what was now. Severing ties with its roots in defense systems finally pushed her to take the offer in Washington that'd been sitting idle in on her desk. The decision wasn't necessarily an easy choice to make; eager as she was to put her skills to use elsewhere, the distance between her and Alan was great and if there was anything she learned from her family, long distance relationships were often designed to fail. Yet, she found herself unable to turn it down just to stay with him and resigned herself to consequences if things didn't turn out as well as she hoped. HJF, at the very least allowed putting her technical know-how to good use with their machinery and let her to do so until she had to take Maternity leave.

The rest of her days were spent waiting for Jet to born, nesting in her little apartment that barely maintained one person; Alan helped when he could, primarily when she told him she needed a hand. The rest she did herself until Jet was ready to come out and greet his mama.

The eight years spent with him were surreal experience. Were it not for the ring on her finger, the baby suckling at her breast, the boy crashing into her work desk from a lack of space and too much energy, there were times she forgot she was married to Alan. Much of their relationship during their separation reminded her of their pre-marital relationship: casual, distant and fighting to make time for each other around the multitude of responsibilities.

In retrospect, Lora wished the both of them had approached their professional and parental duties better. Their careers at their highest, shuffling their growing son between states created an obvious dissonance between who he considered the better parent; his favor eventually landing with Lora in the end and becoming truth in his adulthood, perhaps more so because of the events that transpired with ENCOM and Flynn.

Lora spent a good eleven years under HJF's employ before she was again offered a prosperous position and by NASA of all organizations. By that time she was no longer required by Jet to be completely hands-on in her relationship as he was growing into his independence from both his parents, so she felt less guilty for never completely returning to Los Angeles and remaining in Pasadena.

News of ENCOM's partnership with FCon had become and gone like the wind; to the news and any other cooperate focused media, it was just another merger. To Lora Bradley, it felt like her very life and death hinged upon it. It was once a place she worked, as it held great memories and a fair share of sour ones.

Walter Gibbs, Kevin Flynn and even Edward Dillinger, made the place what it was. The first alteration was hard enough to deal with, considering absence of Flynn and Alan's determination to keep the company afloat in their friend's absence. To think it would be altered as much as it was going to be now with FCon as a partner, it was more than a little unsettling. When she heard about it from her son, she never thought anything would come of it. They'd have to get around Sam and that boy was not about selling what remained of his father's legacy to the man none of them liked.

And yet it happened and Lora could only wonder how it was pulled off. Jethro had the misfortune of between a rock and a hard place with Sam and Alan; his relationship with Eva made him an uncertain variable in what was an already torrid combination of estranged relationships. Jethro had been the first among them to accept Flynn's death, supposedly. His utter dismissal of Alan and Sam's hope made for unpleasant tension that followed the three of them when in a room together. That was almost two decades of unresolved anger, not the kind of stuff that got solved with a simple-heart-to-heart, which why she suspected the boys were more reluctant to make peace than, say, Alan.

There were times Lora wondered why she still continued to work so far from home. The location troubles aside, it was in situations such as these that she wished she'd found a better opportunity somewhere close to home. Alan and Jethro, bless them, were infamous for taking matters into their own hands and making things worse.

Instead of coming to his parents about the supposed antagonistic bias he was experiencing at school, he sabotaged the entire system with a lazy game that would confuse most programmers. Instead of convening with her on the matter of his behavior, Alan did the job himself and it blew up in his face. Late nights out with friends turned into long absences from home and sporadic appearances that pushed the levels of his father's patience.

And she knew this only through second hand accounts. To say she felt like an unnecessary cog in the wheel that was her family was being kind in an otherwise blister of s situation. Were it up to them they'd probably leave her completely in the dark, which only illuminated how distant the three of them had become in recent years. Even now, sitting at the wheel of her car, listening in on a report covering merger of FCon and ENCOM, she felt like she should've been doing more.

And the irony of it all was it was completely up to her to change that; her husband was missing, her son was unconcerned and Sam was playing detective in her stead. Really, she should've been doing all of this. Rolling to a stop at a red light, Lora reached over to check her cell phone. She hadn't received a call from Sam at all after getting a text announcing his arrival to Flynn's. One attempt to ring his phone resulted in a busy signal, the second got her the clinical "the number you've dialed is unavailable". Her concern became full blown panic when she tried to call Flynn's and received absolutely no answer.

Flynn's Arcade was becoming a veritable black hole of communications. Something like this didn't happen unless the setting was befitting a slasher film. She was certainly old enough to be a Jamie Lee Curtis, doubly so. Traffic moved painfully slow, even with the light glowing a vibrant green no one seemed to be in a rush to get their destination, aggravating her impatience to no end. It would probably be another thirty to forty minutes – give or take – before she arrived where she needed to be. Glancing down at her phone again, she tempted to pick it up again.

"Whatever you boys have gotten yourselves into, it better be worth all this worrying," She muttered. Halfway across the crossing line the light flickered yellow. Lora nearly slammed her foot down on the accelerator. The cars in front of her managed to cross, speeding off to their destination. Lora gently pressed down on the break, frustration blossoming across her cheeks in a flush of blood to the head. She hit her steering wheel. "Great, absolutely wonderful," Lora sighed.

The jingle of her cell phone filled the car, relieved to have something distracting her; Lora reached over and answered it. "Hello, Lora Baines speaking," She said in her best professional voice.

"Mrs. Baines, its Eva. Eva Popoff."

Lora sat up a little straight in her chair. "Oh, hello, Eva, how are you?" Where Eva was, Jethro was never far behind.

"I—I'm fine, Mrs. Baines, thank you for your concern."

"Please, call me Lora. We're friends, aren't we?"

"Yes, I suppose..."

"Eva, is there something the matter? You're usually such a chatterbox, I can't get a word in edgewise," And that was putting mildly, Lora thought.

"It's about your son and Samuel Flynn."

Lora felt her heart skip a little. The honk of a horn from behind startled her. Extending her free hand she signaled the drivers behind her, letting them know she'd gotten the message. Pulling forward she moved through the green light and down the clear road. "Eva, did something happen between him and Sam?"

"No, more like something happened _to_ them," Eva clarified in the vaguest way possible. Lora tried her best to keep her eyes on the road as she listened to the silence on the other end of the phone. "I don't understand, Eva. What do you mean something "happened to them"? Are they hurt?"

"I mean to say, I think your laser killed them. I can't find my amant or his insufferable friend. They are both missing and they've never left the basement."

"My, what did what?"

"Please, just come to the apartment. I need your help." Lora attempted to get another word in but the line went dead. Eva's words bounced around in her head; "her laser", "killed", the idea that they were being used in conjunction to her son and friend, none of it clicked with her. Sam and Jethro found a laser, the SHV 20905 in Flynn's Arcade, someplace it shouldn't have been by all rights. Flynn promised her that the machine had been decommissioned and parted out when they shut down the digitizing lab, so what was it doing at his old place, of all places?

* * *

Visiting the armory was something else. Instead of being handed a suit and shoved into a dressing room, he ordered to stand on a platform and remain perfectly still as a group of women undressed him. One wrong move gave him the shock of life, one he still felt biting into his skin.

Archaic as the entire process was, they would not allow him to disrupt them. Now, wearing a suit that revealed the wears of his time on his other up kept frame, Alan wondered how Flynn could stand to wear the things; he was already missing his trench coat and glasses.

When he last saw Flynn, he'd been excited at the mere announcement of a game. This of course puzzled and bothered Alan as he slowly came to realize his friend was in no immediate hurry to find an escape, even when he had an Identity Disc containing all possible information that could help them. Maybe he was just too used to be being stuck in the computer world, but Alan wanted nothing more than to get out and reconcile with his son.

They'd been ushered from the Administrative Office to a massive ship with the intention of watching the games unfold. Alan had no real interest in the Arena itself, but he was nonetheless impressed with the design of the ship; there were hints of Jordan's style laced throughout the halls, hexagon-modeled halls that slowly transformed into other shapes as they gave way to larger rooms. At present he stood in a room that reminded him of the box seats designed for VIPs; it had a smooth post-modern couch to lounge upon and a large window with a view of the environment below.

"So, what do you think?" Alan turned to find Flynn wearing a robe that went down the length of his legs, stopping just at his ankles; it mirrored the suit he was wearing earlier, but the color was more subdued; bordering on yellow more so than orange. Alan did Flynn the favor of giving the room a once over before answering. "Pretty lavish for a guy in hiding," He remarked, not particularly concerned with how he sounded.

"Ma3a does make sure I'm at ease despite the circumstances," Clu made himself comfortable on the couch, propping one leg on the table in front of him and the other on the cushions of the couch itself. "Well, make yourself comfortable, man, we're almost there."

"Flynn, if you don't mind my asking: What exactly are we doing?" He pulled the disc from his back and showed it his friend as he approached the couch. "For all intents and purposes, we've got the information we need to get outta here, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Clu nodded casually.

"So, why are we about to watch a game?"

"Because, this is what I wanted you see; this is my world, man," Clu spread his arms out as the arena came into view below; sparkling and alive with energy. "I wanted you see this before we got busy. There's nothing quite watching a game you programmed come to life quite like this."

"Flynn, if I wanted-"

"Look, Alan, I know you're rattled by all of this and I understand your urgency, but, humor me for a second here, alright?" Clu cut him off.

"Flynn-"

"You'll love the surprise, I promise, it'll be a fight you won't forget." Alan watched as Flynn sat back in the couch. His behavior from before was not matching up with the actions of the present; he went from urgent and ready to abandon ship to content to play the spectator to a game they could probably watch on a computer screen. To say nothing how little sense his situation already made, he felt like the only person not in on a joke and it was frustrating him.

* * *

(Arena Staging Pit):

Taken in as a prisoner, the only place you had to go was the Deleted, Storage and Processing sector. If you weren't immediately derezzed, you were taken to the armory to participate in the games. Once, when there were willing participants of the sport with nary a threat of deletion as punishment, players were escorted to the Staging Pit. As the central hub for all participants in the game, the Arena Staging Pit served as a place of convenience; you never had to go far to get to the arena or take a rest once you returned. Now it was just one step, one process from game of deletion and oblivion.

The viruses, Alan Two and Unknown emerged victorious as the winners of Zero-G Disc Wars; the critical response to the competition was less than stellar, much to the disembodied announcer's disappointment. Turned out Flynn disbanded the game for a little more than its inability to maintain living players; it was a poorly implemented plan from the get go.

Nevertheless, Quorra found great amusement in their survival. Clarence called them Users, Gods of creation and death itself. If it was true Clu would have them destroyed in fear of rebellion. She was intrigued by their utter naivety. It had been a very long time since she'd seen any kind of program so uninformed of their surroundings and to the point of being incapable of grasping their situation. The way they spoke reminded her so much of Flynn; they said things her mind never connected with or couldn't comprehend as legible language. They mentioned pong, something most programs knew nothing about unless they were privy with the Creator's "Real World".

She and her opponent, Clarence stood alongside each other with little reservation. They were enemies, not by choice, but because of the system. If Quorra had it her way they wouldn't be fighting at all, but this wasn't their world anymore. It was play by Clu's rules or be deleted; it was a choice, but neither presented hopeful prospects.

"Clarence?"

"Y-yes, Quorra?"

"I hope you don't think I'm too forward with this question, but what exactly did you do before all of this?"

"Well, like I said, I'm a search program. I'm designed to find hidden programs and the like," In spite of his situation, there was a modicum of pride in the rabbit's voice.

"I've always heard of a search program, but I never thought I'd actually live to see one face-to-face," Quorra smiled.

"Yeah, well-," He leaned back and scratched the back of his ears. "-I never thought I'd be in a system as old as this one. I heard old systems were restrictive, but this? It's ridiculous. They filed and processed me as a virus before even giving me a proper scanning. Who does that in this day in age?"

"It's the new Administrators, they've ruined everything about this system," Quorra remarked. "It wasn't always like this; we used to do as we pleased, the Creator, Flynn, he treated like us equals."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, everyone was mostly treated like equals… mostly," Careful to keep her hand from her arm, she regarded the gangly figure standing next to her, her curiosity piqued. "What is your system like?"

"A lot cooler than this dump," Clarence replied with no thought to her feelings. "Processing and living space is a lot cozier - oh."

Quorra watched his ears flop over his shoulders in reaction to their presence She followed his line of sight. They walked into the staging pit, their backs straight and eyes wide open. If they were Creators, they were undoubtedly older than her, but in that moment they resembled naught but children. Frightened children in awe with their environment, eager to touch everything around them; Quorra chewed at her gloved finger, she fought the urge to clamp her hand around her upper arm. In the corner of her eye she watched as Clarence's long floppy ears rose upward in delayed alarm.

His eyes seemed to follow her line of sight and fell upon the men across from them and let out a joyous squeak of delight. "My User!" The level of enthusiasm that laced the search program's voice startled her out of her contemplation. Almost everyone around them reacted equally the same; Quorra watched Clarence break away from her side and rush the distance between them on all fours.

He pounced on the program on the left and nearly tackled him to the ground. The scene was uncharacteristically amusing to watch. The reaction was not as alien as she suspected; Clarence was on his knees, his arms were wrapped around the program's waist like he'd found salvation in the face of death.

Clarence had reacted in such a way before, when she initially laid eyes on the two programs across from her. She initially thought that he'd cracked under pressure, but it would appear his proclamation of the User was not at all unfounded. Programs, she remembered Castor telling her, were intrinsically linked to their Creators.

They could always sense when they were nearby and like children were always seeking the approval of their parents. As an ISO, she'd never had the pleasure of experiencing such a bond with Ma3a. None of the ISOs did and with a twinge of jealousy she could only wonder why they were denied what appeared to be an emotional nirvana.

In the corner of her eye she watched as the ICP in surrounding area began to close in on Clarence and the program. Without thought to her own well being, she ran.

* * *

Separating himself from the situation was not as a hard as he initially thought it would be. Between the constant system of denial processing through his mind and the gradual acceptance that came on the like the numbing of nerves, viewing the environment around him divorced from the concept of realism wasn't hard.

Even as the pain sought to remind him the world was tangible and broken, being suspended above the ground he once stood upon and being forced to dodge blinding lights did a lot to break the conventional means in which he saw his reality. That said, walking out of an arena wherein he and Sam were the last men standing stroked his ego like nothing else, even with the crowd booing and crying for their blood.

That'll teach them to label him an illegal program and think they could get away with it. Now all they had to do was survive the next few levels and see where that would take them. "What exactly do you think they'll do to us if we win?" He asked as he and Sam were led down into a tunnel with a slopping floor that took them directly underneath the stadium. Sam regarded his bound hands with some frustration, biting the side of his mouth at the prickling heat that bit into his skin. "I don't know, but I doubt it entails giving us a medal," Sam uttered under his breath. "Makes you think though."

"How they were going to kill us and suddenly decided not to?" Jet remarked dryly, one eyebrow quirked. Sam couldn't bring himself to laugh at the irony of their situation. If the rest of the Games were anything like he witnessed within that arena, they were as good as dead anyway. "Maybe they just wanted some sport before they killed us," Sam speculated.

"Or maybe, we've got a guardian angel on our side," Jet suggested.

"Like dad?" The expression Sam's face was flash pan hopeful and for a moment they were just two kids waiting in the wings. Licking the top of his lip, Jet shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, or you know, Clu," He said, hoping his tone wasn't patronizing. Sam's eyebrows lowered and his expression fell into natural and focused on his hands. "Look, I know you want your dad to be here, but I don't see how that's possible," He pressed.

Sam couldn't help the snort that escaped him. "Says the guy currently stuck in a computer," He retorted. "You don't think its dad, fine. I think it is. Does that bother you or something?"

"What the hell makes you think that bothers me?" If Jet could the rub back of his neck that second, he would've. As it was, Sam never got the chance to give him a proper response. The walls seemed to open around them and with their disappearance came the light. It wasn't terribly unlike their holding cell, but it was incredibly open, the walls stretching as high as the eye could see, unaccommodating to the levels of ground that were connected to each other through ramps and stairs. "Impressive," Sam mouthed when he turned to face Jet.

"Welcome to the Staging Pit," The ICP behind them declared. "You'll be staying here until you're called upon in the next round." Despite their disposition they nodded in the affirmative; the binds around their wrists disappeared, reflexively Sam turned his wrist to ensure circulation at the same time he tried to ignore the cuff of the black suit streamed in glowing blue.

He still wasn't quite used to the suit and how it seemed to reflexively adjust to his every movement like a second skin completely aware of its environment. He shuddered as he continued to survey the environment. There were surrounded at all sides by ICPs who were stationed at different doorways, some of which he could only assume led to exits unlike the wall they literally walked through. Beside him, Jet seemed content to stretch his arms over his head and admire his own physique.

For someone who spent the better half of his life affixed in front of a computer or a drawing desk, Jet did his best to look the complete opposite. Where he'd been a beanpole all his life, Jet was buff in ways his clothing seemed to deliberately masked from the naked eye until he moved in a particular way. The irony of his appearance, of course, was that he couldn't fight to save his life. "Not well, anyway," Sam muttered.

"What was that?" Jet's arms dropped at his side, his brow furrowed. "Nothing," Sam started. A pair of ears entered his line of sight as Jet stumbled back like he'd been yanked by the neck; Sam's neck snapped in his direction as he eyes fell downward. A giant rabbit was trying latch himself around his friend's waist and bury his face in his navel (or its general area).

"What- what the fuck?" Jet's expression was mortified; he backpedaled quicker than Sam had ever seen him before falling into a defensive position. The rabbit's very actions triggered the ICP's around them, their staffs hissed to life, the tips sparking with virulent energy.

Jet twisted to the right, grabbing the rabbit's arms he tossed him away from his waist. The rabbit rolled across the ground and landed on his side, its blue eyes were wide with aghast as it stared back up at the two frightened boy. "Why would you do that?"

"Uh, you attacked me, you stupid rabbit," Jet snapped, as the ICP began to surround them. "No, I didn't, I just hugged you," The rabbit began to shake its head, his expression comprised completely of shame and fear. "You are my User after all."

"Huh?" Jet's features contorted with confusion; the rabbit crawled closer toward them, Jet and Sam backed up right into in the ICP closest to them. They were surrounded in moments; both men turned to face the gigantic creature as he powered its staff and raised it over his head; the center of the bar hooked itself underneath their necks, their heads were snapped back so that they were angled upward. "Don't move," He hissed.

"Wait, wait!" The woman from earlier appeared, her short hair bounced around her face as she rushed toward them. The ICP, undaunted by her appearance, moved to close the gap around Jet, Sam and the rabbit. The woman, equally unaffected by their stature, stumbled through the crack between the two hulking bodies and moved toward the rabbit.

"Out of the way program, he just tried to attack this virus," The ICP reached out to grab her. The nimble program ducked his palm and stepped over the cowering program with floppy ears. "You don't understand, it was just misunderstanding, he thinks everybody - he's just kinda stupid, you see?" She pushed the ICP's hand out of the way. "He meant no harm. He's just a lowly virus looking to mingle with his fellow viruses."

"Doesn't matter, any physical contact with a virus outside the combatant zone require their immediate quarantine."

"But, sir, all three programs are designated are "renegades" - viruses that entered the system illegally." There was a momentary pause, the ICP stared down at the shaking the program then allowed its eyes to wander up at the incapacitated boys. "Is that right?"

"Where you were when this was processed by the rest of us, Hoggis?" One of them said.

"Well, I was in the middle of an upgrade when Shost interrupted the download," Hoggis grumbled.

"Then why aren't they quarantined!" Quorra inquired angrily. "Or worse, derezzed!"

"Ma3a decreed they weren't to be derezzed," Hoggis fired back. He turned to Quorra, its beady eyes squinted eyes sizing her up. "Make sure he doesn't he doesn't do it again."

"Of course, sir," She said. The ICP didn't wait for further retort. He turned his back and motioned for his partners to follow him. The ICP released Jet and Sam from their stranglehold, withdrawing their staffs. They fell back into position as the rest of the ICP brushed past her, purposely bumping into her as they moved to return to their post. There was a lingering silence between the four so-called renegades. Clarence moved from himself from the spot in the center of the floor and closer to Quorra.

Jet and Sam remained perfectly still, their eyes following the every movement of their captors until Sam felt the back of Jet's hand bump his own. He glanced down slightly, Jet's hand twitched again; the circuitry around the wrist was glowing. "I think we have someone who wants to talk to us," He intoned as he leaned close to his friend. It took a moment for Jet to realize what he meant, when he finally allowed his eyes to tear away from the guards, his eyes shifted to regard his friend with a sideways glance.

The silence of his communication did not go unnoticed by Quorra whose eyes were also on the glowing circuitry of his hand. "Follow me, I know someplace we can talk," She said, interrupting their moment. Jet regarded her with mild mistrust, his primary concern centered on the actions of the overly enthusiastic rabbit. "I don't believe he'll try to hug you again, Jet," Yori's voice rang in his ears like a voice filtered through a pipe. "Lead the way," He said without the slightest bit of sarcasm. Quorra nodded and moved toward the far right, Clarence following close behind.

Sam and Jet followed her, their eyes shifting from left to right. Programs appeared to be allowed free roam of the staging pit, but after what happened moments ago, it was hard to shake the feeling of being watched. Quorra led the two into corner, empty of wanders and void if any secret escape. Clarence positioned himself where his back was against the wall and his front was facing Quorra's profile. Sam watched her balance her weight from one foot to the other and her arms swing back and forth in lazy anticipation. She was strangely animated for someone stuck in a literal jail. "So, what is it you wanted to talk to us about?" He asked.

Quorra shook her head, she pointed to Jet's hand. "I wanted to hear what she had to say."

Without meaning to, Jet turned his hand upright and Yori appeared, looking no worse for wear. She turned in a half circle to regard Jet then focused on Clarence. "For a programmer, you're utterly blind when it comes to your own creations," She said.

"Pardon?" Jet blurted. Yori pointed to the sullen rabbit. "Program, what is your designation?" Clarence peeled his eyes away from Quorra and turned to face the smaller companion and pointed at himself.

"Yes, you, what is your designation?"

"Clarence, or Jetexe. I'm a search program. I was designed to find hidden files or programs, specifically Ma3a," Clarence replied.

"And who is you User, Clarence?"

Clarence pointed to Jet without the slightest hesitation, a smile crossing his non-existent lips. "He is, Clarence is my User," He answered. "Is that right?" Yori replied as she turned to face Jet. The young man's expression was mixture of anger and awe. "That's impossible," He said.

"Jet, at this point, I think it's time to get over the bridge of "impossible"," Sam remarked dryly as he watched the rabbit program's ears lower in disappointment again. Jet watched Clarence's body language for a moment; everything he said were things no one except himself was privy to. If that was his program, he never truly thought about the form it would've taken as an avatar. It was just a series of code as far as he was concerned in the real world. Here? Clarence had a personality and it was decidedly attached to him. "You're seriously my program?"

Clarence nodded, tugging at his vest. "Yes. Don't you recognize me?"

"No, not really. I mean, I figure you'd look like me," Jet grimaced when Clarence's ears dropped and his head lowered. "Oh." Way to make a man feel like a heel. He shifted his gaze to Sam, his friend seemed content with saying "I told you so" without uttering so much as a word.

"This is the real deal, Jet. We're in a computer, that is your program, and we're probably going to die if we don't find a way out of here soon." Sam looked to Yori who was still facing the befuddled Bradley. "Yori, you know how to get us out of here, right? I mean, you were planning to get us to the Administrator's Office before you were shot."

"I know how to get you there, yes, but it wasn't exactly easy escaping this place to begin with," Yori replied, turning once more to face the people in front of her. "ICP weren't exactly as attentive then as they are now. They're on high alert because of you and I am, like it or not, an apart of Jet's suit. If I was to orchestrate an escape, he would have to get me there," She explained.

"Maybe I can help," Quorra spoke up, pulling their attention back on her. The young program stared at Yori in awe, like she'd just witnessed the birth of Christ. "I'd only heard stories of your survival, but I didn't think it was true," She smiled, her eyes scanning both young men with an eagerness that set them on edge.

"What do you mean?" Sam inquired.

"Yori- there were-" She shook her head. "Before the purge, Mercury told me she'd been absorbed by Ma3a not long after Tron was killed by Clu."

"Whoa, wait, why would my mother's program absorb her other program?" Jet interjected. "And why would Clu kill Tron?"

Quorra looked at the boy like he'd grown two heads. "Why wouldn't she? Ma3a is the system admin. She _works_ alongside Clu, she's the reason we're here."

"Uh, that's- that can't be right," Sam argued. "Ma3a is the one that brought us and our- his father here, to stop some virus."

"I don't understand," Quorra's eyes flicked from Jet to Sam, suddenly unsure of their allegiances. "Why would she bring illegal programs into the system stop a virus?"

"They're Users," Clarence replied. "Mine sent me into this very system to find Ma3a."

"Truly?" Quorra couldn't hide the disbelief in her voice.

Clarence nodded. "Yes, truly. Like I said, this one-" He pointed to Jet, "created me."

Sam and Jet nodded. "Look, we're not exactly here by choice; she dropped us here and-" Jet extended his hand. "When she was Byte, she told us she was sent to guide us to the Administrator's Office." Quorra couldn't believe what she was hearing; either they were all in league with Ma3a, which was the more likely choice, or they were all being played by Ma3a for reasons she couldn't understand. The latter seemed all too optimistic. "Is that true?"

Yori blinked. "Y-yes, I was instructed by to take the Users to Ma3a, it was my prime directive."

"Look, are you trying to tell us Clu and Ma3a are the reason we're in this thunderdome?"

"Clu and Ma3a have not been allies of the system for quite some time," Quorra practically growled. "They are the reason so many innocent programs are being sacrificed in the name of a blood sport."

"Well, waitaminute, why is my father letting this happen?"

"Your father?"

"Kevin Flynn, the guy responsible for creating this place," Sam clarified.

"You're the Son of Flynn?! And you're working with Clu?"

"Clu has always been the good guy, that's how I know about him in the first place," Sam blurted. "My father- he's the good guy." Sam didn't know what else to say at that point. The more they said, the more severe her expression became.

"Whatever good that was in him, it died when he made himself master of this system alongside Ma3a," Quorra explained.

"We're not for the destruction of the system, at least not while we're-," He stopped himself, choosing to rethink his explanation. "Ma3a and Clu, as far as we knew, are the good guys and you're telling me they're the villains? Clu has my father, that makes no sense."

"If he has your father-"

"Attention. Attention. The Games will resume in less than fifteen minutes. Renegade players report to the arena. Attention. Attention. The Games will resume in less than fourteen minutes…."

They regarded each other with marginal dread, unsure of what to think of the other. Quorra was the first to move out of the corner, perhaps a little too quickly for either Sam or Jet's tastes. Clarence pushed away from the wall; he regarded Jet with minimal hope and moved to catch up with Quorra. Standing alone, Yori their only witness, Jet and Sam turned to regard each other. "What the hell is going on?" Sam muttered.

"Someone's lying to us. And I'm not sure if it's her or we're actually being played by our parent's programs," Jet responded, biting the inside his mouth. "C'mon." The two moved from the corner of the staging pit, stepping back into the light. The ICP's were waiting for them on the upper level of the staging pit; Quorra and Clarence were already waiting, their hands in front of them. "About time, programs, I was beginning to think you purged your cores," The named Hoggis said.

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" Sam remarked dryly, barely loud enough to be heard. "What's that?" Hoggish snapped stepping forward.

"Calm down, Hoggis, he'll be derezzed soon enough," The ICP next to him stated as a matter of fact. Hoggis regarded the blonde for a moment with weary slits. Sam maintained a stoic expression that was steadily cracking under the threat of a smile. "Ah, you're right," Hoggish waved him off in a dismissal.

"Alright, combatant fourteen you're with Quorra in four way disc wars; combatant fifteen and Clarence, you're assigned to the Lightcycle races," Hoggis announced. "I'd wish you luck, but that would be silly." He gave a little laugh. "Now get moving." Jet exhaled heavily and looked to Quorra. The young woman watched him with hesitation but moved toward the wall through which they entered. He started after her when he felt Sam's hand grab his arm. Jet almost stopped to ask why he grabbed but. The message on Sam's face was as clear as day.

"Stay alive, alright?" Hardly reassuring words, but they were appreciated nonetheless.

"Sure," Jet nodded.

"No touching words of encouragement!" Hoggis shoved Jet forward, pulling his arm from Sam's grasp. Knowing better than to fire back at someone three heads taller than himself, he nodded and moved on.

"So, it looks like it's just you and me, Clarence," Sam remarked casually as he and the rabbit were handcuffed by Hoggis. Clarence frowned, finding no comfort in his words. If he was going die, he wanted to do next to his User.

* * *

Walking through the tunnel of darkness again made for a surreal experience without guard to lead them there. The walls and path were predetermined, they couldn't go anywhere except into the arena, but the thought of escape in almost pitch-darkness was enticing. Quorra hadn't said a thing to him since they left the staging pit. He could see the outlines of her suit clearly in the darkness alongside his own; they provided little insight to her expression beyond the shadows of her cheekbones and the flicker of her eyes as they reflected the light. "How do I know I can trust you?" Quorra inquired mechanically.

"We don't know each other, so, you really can't," Jet answered. "And I'm not asking you to."

"That isn't an option," Quorra stopped as they were on the threshold of exit. "This isn't a game where we can afford not to trust each other." Jet's mouth open and closed, his sarcasm deflated and his mind wandering. "I know the mechanics of the game-" He paused, suddenly realizing he didn't know her name.

"Quorra," She supplied. "And if you know the mechanics of the games, then you know I need to trust you."

"Look, I can't make you trust me, especially if this is about Ma3a," Jet retorted. "I don't know what is going on, but I tell you as far as this game is concerned, I will not stab you in the back. Not if it means I die too." Short and to the point. Quorra bit the edge of her lip in mild frustration. She wanted to trust him, but everything in her body was telling her not to.

"That's what I needed to hear," She stated before moving on. Jet followed after her, shaking his head in exasperation. Why was everyone jumping on him today?

* * *

Mixi Tracer skipped through the corridor of the throne ship, microphone in hand. She lived for moments like these, announcing the next round in the presence of Clu. The last few rounds had been underwhelming and cut short to say the least because of the current circumstances of the systems, and there was no better way of boosting morale than hyping the crowd from the iconic battle ship itself.

The doors to administrator's quarters opened, revealing an older man with white hair and the administrator himself, wearing his ceremonial robes. Neither party looked particularly pleased to find her at the threshold of the room. For a moment she almost questioned why. Then she remembered her place. "Sir, I'm pleased to announce the next round is about to start and we've got two renegade-"

Clu cleared his throat loudly and extended his hand toward her. "Thank you, Mixi, I can assess the situation myself."

"But, you haven't even heard the best part, yet, sir," Mixi tried to continue. Clu continued to look at her, his smile stretched thin. It wasn't particularly threatening, but the humor fading from his eyes more than implied he was losing his patience with her. Biting back her own frustration, she removed the datapad from against her chest and handed it to him. "Of course, sir," Her eyes wandered up to the white haired man. He paid her no mind, his eyes were completely on the roster provided by the datapad. She'd never seen him before, she begin to imagine where this gangly thing was respawned from. "I'll be out on the balcony, announcing things," Mixi said as she backed out of the room.

"You do that, Mixi. Keep up the morale," Clu remarked distractedly.

"What was that about renegades?" Alan inquired, still trying to get a look at the datapad. Clu barely flicked his eyes over to the closed doorway before he shrugged. "Nothing to worry about, pal, trust me," He extended the pad to Alan. "Take a look."

"What is it?" Alan asked, eyeing the pad with suspicion.

"You're surprise, man. What else would it be?" Clu smiled.

* * *

The games began without giving him a moment to catch his breath. The moment they stepped outside, the roar of the crowd rocked him and the number of people- programs waiting for them made him dizzy. In the fuzzy accesses of his mind he recognized the format immediately. From the top down the four sided arena looked short enough to cross its distance in a single breath. Standing plum in the thick of things, however, was being in the middle of a football arena that was about half of its yard length.

The rules were painfully simple; block the attacks of your opponent's discs until you wear their defenses down and defeat them. Secondary weapons were permitted on the stipulation that they were used for defense and not offensive attacks against the player. Stamina and quick reflexes was the name of the game here and he had both in ample supply. The crowd situated around him was equal parts cheering, equal parts jeering. He had no idea who they were rooting for or against, considering.

"Are you sure you're any good at this?" Quorra's voice snapped him out of his reverie. She stood with her back to his, one hand on her disc, the other on her baton. Jet inclined his head slightly toward her, never taking his eyes from his opponent standing in front of him. "I've played a few times… in the real world, anyway," He answered through his teeth. "Don't sweat it, I've got this. And yourself?"

Quorra readjusted her stance and nodded. "It was my favorite game play when things were normal," She replied. You watch my back and I'll cover yours, okay?"

"Right," Jet replied as his visor appeared across his face. In the corner of his eye he could see a small video window appear and Yori's visage smile nervously at him. "I'm right here if you need me," She said. Jet returned the nervous smile in a show of appreciation as the overly excited announcer announced the beginning of the game. No team waited for the other to signal, the moment Jet and Quorra jumped apart, discs flew overhead and collided with each other.

Jet caught his disc in time to block another's attack, the player across from him redirected the ricochet to another opponent who was not so fortunate in her efforts to block the oncoming discus. The flash of blue light stunned him for a moment. He watched as the woman's body crystallized and fell in a splash of bits of data like glass.

"Look out!" Yori's voice screeched in his head as Quorra's arms were around his waist the next instant; he fell over from their combined weight, but not in time to completely miss the weapon aimed at his head. He felt the razor sharp edge of the disc slice him across the top mere seconds before his head collided with the ground.

Quorra sat up and brought her baton up in front of her, blocking another disc. She rolled off of him as he twisted and pushed himself back up onto his feet. He let his disc soar from his hand toward the program in front of him and watched as the disc slice through the program's middle. "On your right, kneel and raise your arm," Yori's voice echoed in his head again. He did as he was told, more out of instinct than general respect of his mother's voice. He raised his arm, a circular shield materialized in a stream of blue and white light.

The disc bounced from the center of the shield and went flying to the left. Standing up, he extended his left arm and caught his own disc in hand. Across from him Quorra arm extended as she released her own disc and blocked an oncoming attack from behind with her baton. The discs that they both deflected bounced off each other and returned to rightful owners.

One of the four teams remained now, the pieces of the other players laid at their feet like discarded information fallen from a box. Both players lost their teammates in the duel, neither were about to allow themselves to be beaten by the renegade programs. With a swing of their arms they let loose their discs and in the same instant made a fumble for their defensive weapons.

Jet stumbled out of the way, diving to the left. Quorra gracefully flipped out of the way and let loose her disc again. The right the opponent reclaimed her disc again and blocked her attack. Jet's opponent was not so fortunate. His disc sliced through his abdomen, he cried out in pain as his body began to crumble.

Quorra knocked the woman's attack with her baton and ducked Jet's disc as it came flying overhead. It ricocheted against the arena wall and sliced the woman across the neck. The disc came hurtling back toward Jet. Against his better judgment he snatched it out of the air, the blade sliced through his suit and dug into his palm. Quorra watched as the woman felt to her knees, hands around her neck even as she began to die. The look of aghast on her face was a stark contrast of the jeers and cheers that roared all around him. He felt Quorra's hand on his wrist; he looked away from the dying program as she shattered across the ground. "You're bleeding," It was a statement he wasn't sure made any sense.

Even as he stared down at his hand and see the blood running across the blue lines of his disc. "No, your head—it's bleeding," She repeated. "Oh," He reached up to touch his forehead. What he initially mistook for sweat was indeed blood. Dragging his hand across and away from his face he regarded the slick reflection of his vital blood resting on the glove. His heart slowed, the noise began to fade out against the throb of his heart in succession to the throbbing in his head. "Oh, shit."

"This is bad, right?" Quorra asked as Jet continued to stare down at his hand. "Bleeding from the head isn't good, right?"

"Not- not usually," Jet answered as he lowered him to the ground and pressed a hand to his head. Quorra knelt in front of him; he could see her mouth moving but the words were fading out into the background of a muffled of howl. "Jet, you need to stay awake," Yori's voice bubbled up from the back of his head. "Yeah, just a second," He didn't say as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he tipped backward against Quorra's efforts to keep him upright.

* * *

**TBC.**


	20. Sixteen: Your Mom is Probably Gonna Save Us All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I honestly cannot believe it's been a year since I last updated this tale. That's all kinds of funny to me, and probably very frustrating for anyone remotely still dedicated to this story. But, I'll be honest: my interest in _TRON_ waned like most things, and that effected the drive for this story. On top of that, a lost a lot of information on a computer that had most of the story notes for this tale, so that was a double wammy for me. Misfortune is a constant companion, but here's the next chapter.

* * *

Who Lora chose to talk to about Kevin Flynn never left the circle of who she trusted a great deal. That list was very few. Outside of Alan, Gibbs, Jet and Sam, most of the people who used to work at ENCOM were either dead or so far removed her life that it seemed like a fruitless effort to contact them to bring up old memories.

Kevin was some kind of energy and at the time, the right person she wanted to be with during the earliest tenure of their time together in ENCOM. He was competitive, so was she, but they were gunning for different aspects provided by the company.

There were never any real wires crossed. She never wanted to be head of the company, she was content if the laser research she was working with Gibbs was put to good use explicitly outside of the military. The line between friendship and romance never truly blurred into an incomprehensible line; not for Lora.

They shared a mutual attraction for each other for the better part of three years. They started dating. If they weren't working, they were spending an untold amount of time together. What started off as sneaking into other rooms for a kiss or a quick make-out session, escalated into sharing apartments. A "I sleep at your place, you sleep at my place" arrangement. She loved him, and she knew he loved her.

Just not enough to get married when she asked him point blank, which was something he never saw their relationship accomplishing. Their relationship fell into the ditch, Flynn fearing the expectation of obligation when all she wanted was to share her life with him on a level she considered far deeper than just being his girlfriend or "unmarried life partner". Lora could respect that he didn't want to be married. What she wanted was the opposite of his wants, so she left, much to his dismay.

Even through the particularly rocky break-up, they weren't entirely separate from each other. They'd talk for as long as possible before things became too awkward, worked with a set level of cordiality and fought about it later when there was no risk of FUBAR'ing their projects.

Flynn didn't appear to really want to accept the fact that they weren't getting back together until she started going out Alan. From there, it seemed he was content to tease her mercilessly in front of her then-boyfriend, as though it were the only way she would pay him any kind of affection.

No one's life revolved around Flynn, and it would be unfair to assume anyone thought about the troublemaker as much as she (or Alan) did. She had an idea, one that came around every once and a while. If she thought about what actually happened to her Shiva Laser after she quit ENCOM, what Flynn would apply it to, things might've turned out differently for her and family.

She wouldn't be pulling up to Flynn's Arcade, eyeing the building apprehensively. She wouldn't fear the worst for her son's life. The sedan's engine came to a stop when she twisted the key in the ignition. Pulling the seatbelt from across her body, she stepped out the car and fixed her eyes on the redhead standing at the door.

Eva certainly tried her best to look immaculate, even when her running make-up betrayed her state of mind. A white two piece suit and accompanying pearls that draped lower than the sweetheart cut of the shirt underneath the jacket was enough to make Lora feel like a poor church mouse. "Eva, honey, are you alright?"

Eva spotted her not a moment before she stepped onto the curb. Tossing her hair over her shoulder with a shake of the head, she used the tissue she had on hand to clean up. She must've looked like a hot mess to Lora.

She'd never hear the end of it if Jet found out she was crying like this. "Lora, please hurry," Eva extended her hand and waved impatiently. Lora closed the distance between them and took Eva's hand. It was warm, wet and clammy, like she'd been someplace humid.

Lora skipped the pleasantries and jumped straight to business. "Where's the laser, Eva?"

"In the basement, I'll show you," Eva lead Lora into the arcade. The smell of her son mingled the musty smells of the past, jumpstarting old memories. She remembered spending a lot of time at Flynn's when she was on pregnant leave. If she wasn't nesting, she was mingling with her absentminded ex, who always knew how to cheer her up.

The place had changed enough that she could seem more of her son than Flynn in spaces that were once occupied by children and machines. "Eva-"

"Over here," Eva let go of her hand and approached the arcade machine. It had been pulled away from the wall and propped open with a cinder block, from where she stood it was easy to assume that it broken or Jet had been tinkering with it. Then Eva disappeared behind it and Lora was compelled to follow her to find out what happened. Eva peered out from behind the arcade as approached the entrance. "Is this Jet's-?"

"Non, it's Kevin Flynn's basement," Eva said as Lora followed her down. "Jethro tried to keep it a secret, but I surprised him."

"Of course you did."

"What does that mean?"

Lora shook her head. "Nothing, Eva."

They stepped over the dusty threshold into the workspace. Lora started to move forward, Eva grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back closer to the doorframe. She pointed. Lora felt short of breath at the sight of the old laser. She met Eva's gaze, the young woman looked ready to faint. The laser moved back and forth, the eye of its laser could be seen tracking across the wall.

From what Lora could tell, its movement was limited to what it could immediately see. If she approached from the far left of its vision, it couldn't hope to get her. "Flynn, you scoundrel," She whispered. There weren't words to describe what she was feeling right now. "Do you know how to turn it off?" Eva asked.

"Yes, there's a switch on the back. All I have to do it flip it and no more laser," Lora. "Now, I want you to tell me exactly what happened. What else haven't you told me?"

Eva shook her head, eyes watering. "Nothing. Jet- he told me to go upstairs, cut the power. That computer was talking to them-"

"Talking to them?"

"Qui. Sam, he said it sounded like his father and it started things like "they were required on the grid" or something. I went upstairs like he said. I went upstairs and cut the power. That's when I heard him scream," Eva explained.

"The computer was talking to them?"

"Yes! I know it sounds crazy-"

"No, no, it's not crazy," Lora assured her. But it was only what Kevin told her one time in confidence and for the longest time she thought he was literally speaking of the story he built around his TRON merchandise. And if any of this was true, her son and his friend were in the same situation Flynn once was. The bigger question was how to reach them from the outside.

"And they weren't here when you came down here?"

"No, there wasn't any trace of them," Eva affirmed. "Are they dead?"

"No. Trust me, if they were killed by the laser, they would be here. I've seen what that kind of laser does to a person," Lora said. "It's not pretty."

Eva calmed down a little.

"Stay here," Lora said moving away from Eva.

Eva was quick to react, grabbing her arm. "Wait, what if-"

"Evan, I promise nothing is going to happen to me. Unlike Jethro and Sam, I know my way around that laser. I'll be careful," Lora gave the young woman's shoulder reassuring squeeze before moving on. Not completely convinced, Eva busied herself with cleaning face of her mascara for a third time that day. She couldn't present for work looking like some widow, after all.

Lora moved quickly across the room toward the Shiva Laser. It jerked violent in her general direction, she stopped; behind her she could hear Eva gasp loud enough to scare a fly. It moved in the same direction like it was stuck, confirming her initial thought. It could only move so far and laser head was fixed eternally facing forward. He hadn't changed a thing.

The laser was running hot, it had been on for longer than she would've liked or Walter would've recommended. Standing on her toes, she reached her hand into the back and felt around the circumference of the machine until she found the switch. Flipping it downward she felt the hot air from the laser's internal fan power down and the machine slowly become dormant. Manual overrides were a thing of beauty, sometimes.

"Lora-?"

"It's okay, the laser's off," Lora called over her shoulder. Lora approached the table. It appeared that Flynn repurposed Dillinger's table for whatever he was doing down here with her laser. Looking down she could see wires traveling out from underneath it toward an area in the very far corner of the end of the room. The wires were recent tech unlike most of the stuff she was surrounding it. That had to be Jet's work, she thought. Eva joined her at the tabletop. "Can you find Jet and Sam? If they're in the computer?" She asked.

"Who says they're in the computer?" Lora shot the young woman a sideways glance. Eva put her hands on her hips. "As you said, if they were injured, they would be here. If the only logical conclusion is the one that makes the least sense, then-" She shrugged her shoulders. "How do we get them out this machine?"

Lora stared down at the diagnostic data flashing across the green screen. "That's something we're going to figure out together, Eva."

* * *

On any other occasion, the last thing Sam would be worried about is how the other guy was doing in another game. If you weren't focused on the task at hand you were sure to lose in some capacity, it was just a matter of when and by whose hand. He'd been in enough tournaments with Jet to know distraction was your opponent's best friend.

In this case, he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder on an illuminated field with a literal program created by a best friend. Instead of worrying about how exactly he planned on beating the fembot standing across from them like a watchful statue, he was wondering how Jet and their newly acquired 'friend', Quora, were doing in what was probably Jet's biggest weak spot; hand-to-hand combat.

Clarence on the other hand seemed too nervous to do anything but think about what was going to happen to them. His long eats beat at Sam's shoulders every time he turned his head to survey the gigantic area around them. For such a small system he was surprised by how much it could process. The task he had yet to complete for his User seemed that much more daunting now, especially now that he was staring wrongful deletion in the face.

His red eyes wandered over to Sam; the friend of his User seemed no less astonished by his environment, but who knew what would happen to him if he actually faced his own end. He'd heard rumors among older programs his User played with - urban legends, really - about the User who entered ENCOM and disappeared after destroying the Master Control Program. According to some, Users couldn't die, they were merely returned the world they came from. Others merely believed they were derezzed like any other program. They told the newer programs about it all the time, but no one knew what was truth or fiction.

That so many swore by the first instead of the latter made Clarence wonder, but he could never seem to get an answer from his User. He never wanted to talk about anything except Ma3a. And if what other sprite, that nicer female program, said was right, then Ma3a couldn't be trusted on any level if she was working with the programs that imprisoned them.

He frowned and scratched under his ears. It felt like an eternity since he encountered the ICPs, Byte and Beta. He made the mistake of believing he could outrun them and got caught, while Byte and Beta escaped. Now Byte was some backup named Yori and he was facing his literal end with some stranger instead of his User. Frightened as he was, he hoped Beta managed to escape and found the help he was looking for.

"Hey, are you alright?" Clarence turned to face the other User - "Sam" he thought his name was - with a blank expression. Was he alright? Clarence shook his head. "No, I'm about be deleted, off lined," He said. "Quit without being saved. What could possibly be alright about that?"

Sam offered him a rueful look. "Not much, really, but all things considered, I think we might have a chance here," Sam said.

"Is that right, User?" Sam and Clarence looked away from each other and focused their attention on Mercury. She had a face that never quite connected with the rest of her body, like it had be copied and pasted on a low resolution render, yet it still maintained the dimension a high resolution model. The body itself was imposing; she was bigger than any woman Sam had ever met and looked as though she could bench press him three times over without breaking a sweat.

The stalks she likely called hair seemed to flutter with untold excitement as she approached him, blue lips thinning into a smile. She kept moving closer until there was almost no space between them beyond the space between their noses. "You think you can win?" Sam stared her down, for all the good it did him in the confidence department. Raising his chin he said, "Yeah, I think we can. What it's to you? Worried you'll lose?"

"To a Renegade program? Hardly," She scoffed, the edges of her lips curling into a smile. "I'm simply worried about the false hopes you attempt to foster for these naive programs. I've seen so many like you enter this arena, processing high on the idea that they'll beat me and free the system from the so called tyranny. But, no one's ever been able to beat me in a Lightcycle race. I'm the best there is."

"The best? Well, that's gotta be one boring existence. No challenge, no way to sharpen your skills—" Something in her eyes flickered. The soft pale blue became hard and dark and Sam knew he'd crossed the line, yet shrugged his shoulders anyway. "I'm just saying, a little loss never hurt anyone," He finished. Mercury's gaze shifted over to Clarence, who at that point had been watching Sam like a bug struck with a case of the 'like syndrome'.

Clarence looked away from the User as more programs were loaded onto the track. All of them looked just as frightened as they were herded into place behind them. "We'll see how long that mindset lasts, Renegade," Mercury flashed Sam a tight-lipped smile and turned her back on him.

Sam watched her go, wishing his brain hadn't stalled on him. He knew better than to push his luck with something like Mercury, but the urge to be a smartass was strong nonetheless. She looked down on one program as he looked up, his knees practically buckled at her gaze but he kept moving.

"Maybe you shouldn't have said that, User," Clarence said after a moment. Sam never got a chance to respond. Several of the Black Guard appeared on either side of Mercury, armed with batons. Their red and orange circuitry stood out against Mercury's shades of blue.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to the Lightcycle arena! We've got an impressive turnout of programs today, all racing in the name of a quick deletion. Our defending champion, Mercury, is sure to give us a spectacular show, so let's give her all our support!"

The crowd roared and pixels of light flashed overhead like fireworks, an ocean of blue, red and orange. It was clear whose side they were on, this whole event was centered on the worship of the home team, but Sam pretended, just for a moment, they were cheering for him… and Clarence. What else was he going to do?

Mercury thrust her arm forward and spread her fingers, palm facing downward. A baton materialized just below her fingers and raced up to meet her palm. She clutched the cylindrical object in her hand and ran toward the open expanse of the arena. The Black Guard followed suit. Sam watched as streams of light came together to create a construct of a motorcycle and become physical the moment they touched the slick surface of the arena.

Mercury disappeared in a ribbon of blue light, and in that moment no one seemed concerned about a starting line. They ran past Sam and Clarence, mimicking the same movements of their opponents, none too concerned about how they intended on catching up with the races with a major head start on them. It was every man for themselves it appeared; no one was going to throw them any helpful hints in this game.

Sam felt a rush of excitement flush through his veins as he found hisself repeating the same movements and running headlong into the black. This he knew how to do. "Wait for me!" He heard Clarence cry as the wheels of his Lightcycle made a touchdown. He revved the engine and pressed down on the gas, he felt his neck grow taut from the force bearing down on him as the bike screamed to life and sent him flying across the arena.

The speed was unimaginable, supernatural even. Even as the world around him blurred, blocked out by tunnel vision, he could still see the road ahead of him… and below him. He glanced down and could see streaks of colors shattering and overlapping each other as the racers fought for supremacy over each other and the track. Paying no mind to the road ahead of him Sam barely registered the stream of blue light that materialized ahead of him until he was almost on it.

He reacted on second nature alone, twisting his body accordingly to slow his and the bike's acceleration. The wheels screeched his leg seemed to come apart from the bike as he slammed his foot down against the ground. His heel screeched as though it were on glass and not asphalt. The ribbon of light appeared to disappear into the ground, the wheels of his Lightcycle glided over the top of the blue light as it came to a stop.

He just missed being creamed like one of the programs in the game.

"…And the Renegade program just missed being derezzed by Mercury, how disappointing!" Jeers followed and Sam felt his skin bristle.

His heart in his throat, Sam fought to right hisself as several Lightcycles zipped by him. Get a hold of yourself Sam. This just like the arcade game; you just gotta remember the paths. Remember the paths _._ His bike sped off after the other blue programs. He couldn't identify which one was Clarence or Mercury. He was on his own.

Below him, Clarence struggled to evade the orange programs dogging at his heels. He'd hope to stick to the User, Sam, but the moment he found himself in the openness off the arena he had no idea what to do and it appeared his opponents knew exactly how to capitalize on his alienation.

They drove him directly into the lower level of the arena, and he could nothing but move with the flow of the track as he attempted to evade their isolation techniques. What's worse, one the opponents had the same circuitry color as they did, there was no telling who the User was, who was friendly, or who was Mercury.

An unfair advantage he thought bitterly, aiming his cycle toward the ramp ahead of him. His wheels struck the neon arrow below, his engine roared louder and he was practically carried over the threshold by the sudden boost in speed. Ears flapping in the wind, Clarence dared to look down and spied one the Guard staring up at him with what could only be described as extreme annoyance.

Clarence came down hard and just as quickly, veered to his left as fast as he could. He never took the moment to watch as the Guard and one other blue program collided with the ribbon of light trailing behind his Lightcycle, he didn't want to. And it was just as well: As he aligned himself with a straight path, a streak of blue shot past him. In that flash of second, his eyes met the cold blue eyes of his opponent, and he felt a sharp pang slide across his waist.

All that he was processing seemed to fall out from under him, bit by bit. Mercury winked at him and disappeared into the black, blue light arching in a hard right. Clarence kept on his path, realization slowly creeping into his mind as his right leg went numb and he lost his balance.

The weight of the Lightcycle crushed him as he slid across the ground and dissipated the next moment in a burst of blue chunks. Lying on his back, Clarence barely had time to scream over the pain of his being unraveling and spilling out across the arena before he ceased to be as a functional program.

"Mercury just took out a renegade program!" Sam glared at the sound of the crowd cheering for the end of some stranger they'd never met. Looking out ahead, he tracked the blue stream of light moving fast across the track.

She was coming straight for him.

* * *

"Are you alright, Quorra?"

"I'm functional, thank you, Yori."

Quorra had spent enough time with Flynn understand the difference between a hurt User and a "hurt" program. Programs didn't bleed; they simply stopped functioning, shut down for repairs if possible. But, Users, the kind of harm of they suffered seemed cruel to their design. Depending on the severity of a User's injury, there was no telling how much blood they could lose.

She'd only seen Flynn bleed once, it frightened her, but it was paltry compared to the blood she saw on Jet's hand when he pulled his hand away from his head after being struck with the Identity Disc. None of the other programs had seen what happened to him and expected that he would derezz, instead he lay on the ground, out like a light and it was all Quorra could do to stop the ICP from trying to derezz him because they'd never seen blood before.

She'd earned more than a few rod burns because of their misunderstanding; the memory of covering Jet's otherwise unresponsive body with her own, however she small she was in comparison to him, was hardly enough to halt their aggressive deletion tactics. It took an order from on high communicated through the obnoxiously chipper microphone personality that cheered for their demise, to get them to stop.

The ICP only backed off so much; they were removed from the arena and dumped into an isolated area of the staging pit. Jet was tossed about like a "sack of potatoes" and she was hardly treated any better once they were situated inside the cramped prison. The aftermath left Quorra questioning her actions, actions she rationalized were motivated merely because she recognized him as a User and not a problem.

Jet hadn't moved from the spot he landed in, lying awkwardly on his right arm, which only appeared to be twitching because Yori had chosen the right palm to attempt to project her physical self to her. Kneeling down, she rolled him onto his back and pulled his right arm as straight as she could. The smaller program appeared in a flash of light, she seemed at a loss as to what to do. "I can't seem to wake him up just yet," She told Quorra.

Quorra, rubbing the bare part of her arm, regarded the program with some suspicion. So far, Jet had given her no reason not to trust him, but his allegiance with a program that told him that he was be taken to Ma3a made her suspicious of his intentions in regards to Flynn.

Could either of them be trusted or was their presence some kind of ruse to weed out the last of the resistance? And to what end, considering they were already imprisoned? "User downtimes are hard to gauge," Quorra said, choosing to finally break silence. "They can remain offline for hours or days at a time."

"How do you know?" The smaller sprite inquired. Quorra shrugged. "Rumors I heard from older programs who met users," She answered, rising to her feet. Yori watched her pace back and forth in the tiny space she was afforded in an already cramped space, her pale eyebrow quirked in suspicion. "You mean from another User," Yori didn't bother beating around the bush.

Quorra shot the woman a look of mistrust that confirmed her suspicions.

"You know, you don't have to be so secretive. I'm no threat," Yori said.

"I don't know that," Quorra stated flatly. "And besides, anyone who aligns themselves with Ma3a is a threat to the system's freedom."

"It's nothing like that," Yori protested.

"Then how is it like, Yori?" Quorra demanded. "There's too much about your appearance that seems designed to trap anyone Ma3a or Clu hasn't captured already."

"When I was given my directive, it was before whatever happened to Ma3a," Yori said. "I'm coded to follow it until the objective is accomplished."

"Unfortunately," Quorra grumbled. "Do you realize what will happen if they realize what Sam or Jet purport to be?"

"Deletion, I suspect," Yori replied, sitting down on the cone of light that emitted from Jet's palm. "Or worse."

"What could possibly be worse than deletion?" Quorra asked, more than a little baffled. "I don't suspect you can repurpose human beings."

"No, according to Flynn, Users are just on the edge of "too complicated" to rewrite like you could one of us, but if there's anything I remember about Clu, he was fascinated with world Flynn called home."

"So?"

"So, I suspect, there's still a part of him that wants to visit that world- what?" Quorra had stopped moving, her eyes were directly on Yori and she was looking as if she were trying her hardest not laugh.

"What?"

"Yori, that's the most absurd idea I've ever heard."

"Quorra, if you knew what systems lay beyond the one you've lived in, it wouldn't think it so absurd," Yori said. "Programs can't take physical form like I suspect Users can in a non-program environment, but they can invade other systems. Who's to say, with Jet or Sam Flynn's help, Clu and Ma3a, they couldn't invade another system like ENCOM?"

"ENCOM?"

"The old system Tron and I used to live in, where we met Flynn," Yori clarified. "Believe me, sprite, what I'm telling you is not a joke."

Quorra said nothing. Her hand rest on the upper part of her arm - self-conscious and guarded of the brand that was barely hidden by the arm length gloves she wore. "For all I know, that's a lie."

Yori shrugged her shoulders. "Fine, be stubborn. You'll see."

Before Quorra could come back with a rebuttal, Jet's lax hands clinched. Yori disappeared, her light traveling up his arm. Quorra watched as the tall man's limbs floundered about before remembering they were still attached to his body. He sat upright before his eyes opened, and slouched forward. Quorra stood where she was, unsure of what to make of his behavior. Yori reappeared on is shoulder, a look of concern playing on her face. "Jet? Are you alright?"

He shook his head. Opening his eyes, Jet lifted his left hand to touch his head. "What happened?"

"You were hurt, a disc hit you in the head and you started to bleed," Quorra relayed.

"Right, of course," Jet moved his hand away from the spine spikes of hair and focused his attention on Quorra. "Sorry about that."

"What are you sorry for? You were hurt."

"No, I mean, I'm sorry I fainted. I was hurt, but the sight of blood- it makes me woozy."

"You can't stand the sight of your own bodily fluids?"

"Yeah- it's a defense mechanism, I guess. I dunno, my dad does it too," He titled his head slightly, eyes wandering the confined space he was lying in. "What are we doing here? Did we win the match?"

"We won, but you fainted, so we couldn't progress to the next arena," Yori chimed. Jet's hand opened like second nature, Yori reappeared just as quickly. "They weren't exactly happy about your little fainting spell."

"So why not kill me?"

"Quorra-"

"I'm not sure, but we're alive and that's what matters, isn't it?" Quorra interrupted, standing straighter. Jet thought to ask what that particular reaction was about. It wasn't normal, and Quorra seemed jumpier than a long tailed cat around rocking chairs. So he did. "Hey."

Quorra did him the respect of meeting his gaze. Her hands gripped her arms harder, something that didn't go unnoticed. "They didn't hurt you instead, did they?"

"No worse than usual," It was about all Quorra seemed willing to admit. He watched her, automatically remorseful. She was used to this, he thought with a frown. "C'mere."

"Excuse me?"

"Come here… please?"

"What in the net for?"

"I just-" He sighed. "I just wanted to see if you were okay."

Quorra stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "I'm harmed, but it's nothing I can't recover from."

So much for that, Jet thought, disappointed. "They gonna send us out to fight again?"

"Of course, now that you're awake, they'll send someone to get us," Quorra said.

"They monitor everything in this place?"

"PIDs mostly. Whether or not they listen in on conversations is another matter entirely," Quorra explained. "Can you stand?"

"I think so, just give me a moment, okay?" Jet groaned, flexing his toes. "You know anything about Sam?"

"No. If he isn't here, then there's a fair chance he's still alive," Quorra replied.

"What happens when- if he wins?"

"Then he'll face Rinzler, and then, he'll lose."

Jet balked. "So, what's the point of fighting if they're not gonna let you win?"

"Bloodsport, that's what Flynn called it," Yori answered. "It's keeping the population for Flynn occupied, keep them distracted from what's really going on."

"And what exactly is going on?" Jet huffed, slowly rising from the ground to stand. Yori readjusted her position from his hand back to his shoulder. Jet was careful not to touch the walls, uncertain if he would be shocked.

"Yori believes Clu wants to spread out into other networks."

"Well, considering I've got my network connected to this system, it's not unlikely," Jet groaned, pressing a hand to his lower back. "Remind to find a soft place to faint."

"You have another network connected to ours? Is that how you came here?"

"Not exactly. I told you, Ma3a brought us here against our will, and if what Yori told you is true, maybe this is the malicious program she wanted us to get rid of us."

"Ma3a works with Clu, why would she want him destroyed by Users?"

"No competition? I don't know. This is something I could've solved outside a computer," Jet grumbled extending his arm forward with his palm open. "Yori, about Users and programs-"

Yori reappeared in the palm of his hand. "Yes, Jet?"

"You said that programs take on the likeness of their users, right?"

"That would appear to be the case, though you're the first exception I've come across."

"Right, but, Rinzler, he looks like my father, and he's got the same character scheme as Tron. Is he-?"

"Your father?"

"No! Is he Tron?" He asked.

Yori looked pensive. There was very little she could recall from her memory banks from the version of Yori that created her. What she could remember was that the two were injured from fighting against Clu, Tron being worse off than her counterpart. "I never saw him- I mean, Yori never saw him die, but that's only because she was taken from her cell without him. I don't think it's possible," She said.

There was a moment where both Quorra and Yori stared at him like he'd taken leave of his senses. Again. Jet gauged their expressions curiously, unsure why they would react the way they did. "What? How is it not possible?"

"It's not because Tron was killed by Rinzler. It was a public execution," Quorra turned to gaze outside the energy field keeping them inside the cell. She could see shadows moving across the walls and closer to their location. "And how do you know that?"

"Before he disappeared into the Outlands, Flynn took a chance on the city and wanted to rescue Tron while Clu wasn't up and running at a hundred percent. Tron's PID led him outside the game arena where Clu called a meeting. It was this huge thing, and I remember being there because it was before Mercury-"

"Mercury?"

Quorra nodded. "Yes, she was my friend. She's not anymore. Anyway, we were there and Clu had Tron handcuffed to this podium with one of the Elites behind him. He told everyone there that he would do everything to maintain order as Flynn would want it… so he had the Elite execute Tron."

Jet balked. "What the hell did he do?"

"Threaten the system's order, he protected the ISOs," Quorra turned to face him again. "I saw him derezz. So, there isn't a chance Tron is Rinzler-"

"Because that data is the system is destroyed?"

"Yes."

They fell silent. Quorra watched Jet's shoulders slouch and the hope vanish from his face. It was a good theory, all things considered; if she hadn't seen Tron die in person she would've been willing to support the idea completely. There were too many similarities between Tron and Rinzler, from their obvious looks to an identical fighting style that could lead a program to believe just that. "Jet, you said Tron looked like your father?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Your father is Tron's creator? The one he always called "Alan One"?" Quorra asked.

"That would be my father's username, but, yeah. My dad is Alan One," He confirmed. "Ma3a, she started calling me Alan Two before she zapped us here."

"Unbelievable," Quorra's expression went from hardened and suspicious to baffled. She looked to Yori who shared a similar expression.

"My father- he never knew about any of this. At least not before now," Jet said.

"No, but his program was extremely important to Flynn's original vision of the system," Yori said. "Tron and Flynn made it possible for every format to co-exist together without fiction… mostly."

"The fact that you're here, that the Son of Flynn is here," Quorra started, stepping closer to Jet. "It means that we may still have a chance to save the system."

"Sam and I aren't saviors. We're a couple of chuckle fucks in the wrong place," Jet regarded the young woman with some hesitation. "And anyway, I thought you said you didn't trust me?"

Quorra grinned bitterly. "I don't, but your being here? It means something to someone like Flynn. If he knew-"

"If he knew? Flynn's alive?"

The energy generating their prison dissipated, the ICPs marched toward them, weapons raised. "You're back on the circuit, renegades," One of them said. "Get moving."

Jet and Quorra obliged the guards without argument. Stepping out of their cell they fell in line and followed the ICP toward the data stream. "Quorra, if Clu is as bad a guy as you say he is and he's got my father… how much trouble is he in?"

Quorra was careful to keep her head forward and voice low when she answered, "If he knows your father is a User? A lot."

* * *

"What was that about renegades?" Alan inquired, still trying to get a look at the datapad. Clu barely flicked his eyes over to the closed doorway before he shrugged. "Nothing to worry about, pal, trust me," He extended the pad to Alan. "Take a look."

"What is it?" Alan asked, eyeing the pad with suspicion.

"You're surprise, man. What else would it be?" Clu smiled.

When Clu handed him the datapad, two things sent through his mind. Clu had either presented him a quick exit from the system and back into the real world like his sanity desperately hoped; or, his surprise had very little to do with anything escape.

The screen was black when he got a hold of it. Acting on second nature, he dragged his finger across the screen and it illuminated. The information displayed on the screen was headed by the title "Arena Games" in neon blue and purple letters. With the exception of two, there were several names and faces he'd never seen.

But he wasn't paying attention to them. He was completely focused on the two faces staring back at him like a pair on a wanted poster, branded with an inverted stamp that read "eliminate". "Jet?" Alan looked up from the pad at the man believed was Flynn. He was smiling like he just accomplished something great and it was taking all his self-control not to grab him by the lapels of his extravagant jacket and demand what the hell was going on. "Sam? They're here?"

"Yeah, man," Clu placed his hands behind him, his smile growing wider. "Betcha thought you'd never see them in here, huh?"

"Flynn, what the- Jet and Sam are in the system?"

"Yeah," Clu nodded. "And for whatever reason, the system has identified them as potential threats that need to be eliminated."

"Eliminated?! As in killed?!"

"Unfortunately," Clu approached the window situated before his lounge and looked down on the arena.

"Why are they even here?"

"I couldn't tell you, Alan," Clu said. "But, I do know one thing. I can get them out of here if you can provide me the COMMAND COM's identity disc."

"I've already told you, I don't know who has the COMMAND COM disc. I don't even know what that looks like," Alan said. "Why are you pretending otherwise? Just stop the games, let them out of the arena."

"I can't."

"Why the hell not?"

"Ma3a controls who goes into the arena and who comes out," Clu explained. "Now, I _can_ let them know you're here."

"Well, what good will that do?"

"Well, it'll bypass our temporary setback for one thing," He said. "Neither one of us has the disc with the COMMAND COM, but- Sam or Jet might."

Alan watched the wheels turning in Flynn's head, now completely unsure of what his intentions were toward him or his son and godson. "Flynn this plan -it doesn't make sense. You'll let them know I'm here, but you won't stop the games? Won't stop them from being killed?"

"Like I said, only Ma3a has the power to do that, and she's not liable to listen to me once the games begin."

"Why not?"

"Because if she stopped the game and removed two identified "Renegades" from the arena, the system would know immediately that another rogue program was inside the heart of its system. In other words-"

"It could find you and the ICPs could turn on you?"

"Exactly," Clu said. "A passive announcement is a risk, but nothing compared to removing potential threats from the arena. So it's up to them to reach us."

This was making less sense to Alan by the minute. "A long time ago, you would've told me a risk like that was worth it, especially if it meant protecting our kids. The Flynn I knew? He would get them out of this mess."

Clu shrugged. "Like you said, it was a long time and we're not exactly the same people anymore, are we, old friend?"


	21. Get Over Yourself Sweetheart (Interlude IV)

 

**Note:** Takes place during "To Win or to Lose?" What Eva and Jet were doing while Alan was snooping around in Flynn's Arcade. Mild sexual content.

* * *

 

Eva and sex went hand-in-hand like no one's business. That's kind've how their relationship started. After pleasantries were done with, phone numbers traded, Eva had no qualms about showing her appreciation for her newfound boyfriend and he had no problems receiving and giving in kind.

Honestly, he was keen on thinking sex with Eva was the better than with his other girlfriends, but who knew what could happen in the future, right?

"I'm angry at my father, and I don't know why." Jet was pretty sure he thought those words, but the way Eva stiffened and moved from under the covers just to glare at him told him otherwise.

Yeah, that's not what your fiancée wanted to hear when she was trying to have a good time. Pressing her lips together Eva tossed her hair from her face and braced herself on either side of him. "Amant, pray tell why are you thinking about your father? Do you want me to gag? I thought we were having fun?"

"W-we are. I just- hear me out for sec?"

"I suppose I have to if I'm going to get any reciprocation."

"Har-har."

Crawling further out from under the covers, she settled herself under his right arm and on her stomach. Out of habit, Jet pulled the sheet up around them to ward off the draft in his room. "Well, what did he do now?"

"Before I came to see you at ENCOM, I ran into him outside work."

"What was he doing there?"

"I guess he was coming to see me. He kinda ambushed me because I had no idea was going on your end of things with ENCOM and FCon. So, what started as a "hi, how are you?" went straight into the blame game."

"What do you mean?"

Jet hung his head slightly. "Um, remember when you told me that you were going to assist in the merger?"

Eva smiled, her fingers dancing across his chest. "You told your father, didn't you?"

"No, I told Lora," He corrected. "I don't know when she told him, but she did."

"So when things didn't go his way-"

"We got into a fight, he asked why I let you use me, and etc.," Jet rolled onto his side. "It was nuts."

"That man is hopeless, Jet. You know I'd never use you like that."

"It wasn't for a lack of trying, though, was it?" He asked. Eva shrugged her shoulders coolly. She tried once or twice to get him help her in a scheme or two, but he always seemed keenly aware that the benefits were more in her favor than his own and he was likely going end up the chopping block if they ever got caught.

Dillinger would pull her out trouble, probably cover her. Jet on the other hand? Well, he had an errant friend, a busy mother and an estranged father. They'd all probably spend the better part of their time telling him he should've never got mixed up with her before they felt pity enough to bail his ass out of trouble if they could. "I tested you, and you remained steadfast in your morals. I can't say I'm in love with-"

"Whoa, whoa," Now Jet was sitting up. "You love me?"

"I don't call you amant for no reason, do I?"

"Well, "lover" could mean a lot of things."

"Such as?"

"I dunno, a lot of things. I could be your boytoy, for all I know-"

Eva started to laugh.

"Eva I'm being serious."

"I know, that's why I'm laughing. No one marries their boytoy, Jethro. That's why they're boytoys. They don't last."

"Oh, c'mon. This whole time we've been together, you never once told me "I love you"," Jet was grinning like a kid in a candy store. "You mean it?"

Eva pushed him onto his back and pulled herself on top of him. "Yes, I mean it. I love you Jet Bradley," She said, kissing him. "I said yes when you asked me to marry you, didn't I?"

He nodded.

"And there are so many ways of saying it without ever using the phrase-" Her lips traveled down his neck. "-why get so hung up on it?"

Jet sighed. "Just stubborn I guess." He was waiting for her lips to move on, but she stopped. He opened his eyes and looked at her. "What's wrong?"

"Why did you tell Lora?"

"Because-" He shrugged. "Because, I felt like I had to. My mom spent so long working there. It didn't feel right not telling her. Plus, it's not like you asked me to keep it a secret, right?"

"No, I didn't," Eva replied. "But you know that's why your father attacked you, right?"

"No, I know why dad and I fought. He's powerless, he can't do anything affect change and Sammy, he doesn't give a shit. But as far as I'm concerned, I'm still angry at him about stuff that happened when I was a kid. I didn't lose my father, he's still here. I'm almost thirty. I should be over this already, right? I shouldn't be this angry about someone who's not even my father. I wasn't the one affected."

Eva shrugged. "Maybe. Then again, no one seems terribly eager about correcting your friend's behavior, are they?"

"N-no, not really, but he lost his dad. He has a right to be pissy sometimes."

"And similarly, so did you. But, to the man you call family and a job that doesn't want your father. I say you're plenty justified in your anger," Eva argued. "Be angry all you want. Anger is healthy, anger is good. If they don't understand that---" She laid her head on his chest in what she hoped as a genuine show of physical support. "---just know I'm always here for you, amant."

"Thanks, Eva. That means a lot."

Raising her head she kissed the edge of his jaw. Moving down his body, she pulled the cover over her head and fought her hardest not to roll her eyes.

Men. Such fragile creatures.


End file.
